The mirror in the cramped dressing room was cracked, but it still reflected Alice’s excitement. She was eighteen, wearing a dress the color of a bruised plum, and applying a lipstick that was much too loud for her face.
Alice looked at him, and for a second, the bravado faded. She saw the deep lines on his face—the map of a man who had been through the mill himself. "But I have to see for myself," she whispered.
"Listen to me for just a moment," he said. "I know that look. It’s a fever. You think the lights of the city are stars, but they are just lamps that burn out by dawn." O Mundo Г‰ Um Moinho
Jorge nodded sadly. He stood up and reached into his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills—his earnings from the day. He pressed them into her hand.
"I am afraid for you ," he replied. "The world is a mill, Alice. O mundo é um moinho. It doesn't care if you are beautiful or if your heart is pure. It just turns. It grinds your dreams into dust before you even realize you’ve been used." The mirror in the cramped dressing room was
"Go then," he said. "But pay attention to your path. Because when the mill starts turning, it doesn't stop for anyone. I just hope that when you finally see the world for what it is, you still have enough of yourself left to come home."
Jorge stepped into the room. He didn’t try to grab her arm or block the door. Instead, he sat on the edge of her bed. She saw the deep lines on his face—the
Alice tucked the money away and walked out into the humid Rio night. She headed toward the music, but as she walked, she found herself looking at the feet of the people passing by, wondering how many of them were already being ground into dust.