Paulo Andrade was a man of habits.

Coffee at six-forty. Two sugars, no milk. The newspaper, folded in three. Nobody folds a newspaper in three. Paulo did.

He was an accountant. Numbers liked him. His shirts were white, his pens were black, and his life was organized in folders.

At the table, he always sat in the same chair. His chair looked at the door.

Remember the door.

Helena was married to this man for eighteen years. She knew his coffee, his shirts, his silence. It was a quiet marriage. Quiet like a library. Quiet like a lake.

On that Tuesday morning, Helena asked, "What time do you come home?"

Paulo put down his cup.

"Six-twenty," he said.

In eighteen years, he was never late. Not one time.

He kissed her head, took his bag, and went to work.