Scars That Stay

HER POINT OF VIEW

I walked as fast as I could, my heart still pounding out of control. Clarinha's hand was ice-cold and gripping mine tight — a clear sign she was still shaken by everything that had happened.

"Mommy, it hurts here," she whispered, pointing at her own knee.

I looked down and saw her tights were dirty, a small scrape beneath them. My heart ached even more. I was her mother — I should have protected her better. The guilt weighed heavier than the pain throbbing through my own body.

"I know, sweetheart, it'll pass soon. Mommy's going to clean it up and put a nice bandage on it when we get to school, okay?" I said, trying to sound reassuring even as my voice cracked.

When we finally reached the school, the teacher — a kind woman named Madame Chantal — noticed right away that something was wrong.

"Mon Dieu! Beatriz, what happened? You're both hurt!" she exclaimed, rushing toward us.

I explained quickly that we'd had a minor accident, that a child ran into the street and I fell trying to dodge. I didn't tell the whole truth — afraid they'd think I was an irresponsible mother. I cleaned Clarinha's scraped knee, stuck on a bandage with a little bear on it, and watched her calm down gradually, going back to playing with the other kids. But I knew I couldn't stay. The clock on the school wall said I was already fifteen minutes late for work.

I hurried out again, feeling every step. My knee throbbed, bruised and swollen under my jeans, and my elbow burned whenever I moved my arm. But I couldn't stop. The bakery was about twenty minutes away, and I had to get there.

The whole shift, I could barely focus. While I served customers, wrapped croissants, and wiped down the counter, my mind kept circling back to that moment on the street. The black car, the shriek of brakes, and above all — him.

The man in the suit.

He was so different from anything I was used to. The firm posture, the serious eyes, an aura of power and money that hung around him. And the strangest part: I'd expected him to yell, to curse at me, to demand money for the damage. After all, the car was expensive, luxurious, and I'd nearly caused a disaster. But he did none of that. He only asked if we were okay. His voice was deep and stern, but it wasn't cruel.

And when I asked if he was going to sue me, his expression shifted. He almost looked sad — or surprised — by the question.

He probably thinks I'm some desperate nobody, I muttered to myself while stacking bread boxes.

And it was true. I wore simple clothes, worn-out shoes, had sun-browned skin and rough hands from work. He must have seen right away that I couldn't afford to pay for anything. Two completely opposite worlds, separated by just a few seconds of panic.

At the end of the day, when I went back to pick up Clarinha, she came running to hug me, completely renewed, as if nothing had happened. But I knew something inside me had changed. That feeling of vulnerability — of seeing my daughter in danger, of seeing how fragile life really is — kept hammering at my thoughts.

Who is he?* I wondered as we walked home under the lights of Paris. I'll definitely never see him again.*

And that's what I believed. That it had been a quick encounter, a passing scare, and that each of us would go on with our lives, in our own realities, worlds apart.

HIS POINT OF VIEW

I got back in the car with my hands still trembling slightly — completely out of character for me. I was used to handling millions of euros, market crises, decisions that shaped futures. And there I was, rattled by a near-accident.

I started the engine but sat there for a few seconds before actually pulling away. In the rearview mirror, I watched them walking off: her in the beige coat, moving fast, the little girl clinging to her hand.

What a strange woman, I thought.

Her question kept echoing in my head: "Are you going to sue me?" As if the worst thing that could happen in her life was being held liable for property damage. The way she'd said it — afraid, that soft voice laced with insecurity — got under my skin in a way I didn't want to admit.

She carried the visible marks of a hard life. Her hands, though small, looked calloused. Her eyes, despite the fear in them, belonged to someone who fought every single day. And there was something about that Portuguese accent — so warm, so familiar — that stood in sharp contrast to the cold business world I inhabited.

I drove to the office, arriving very late for the meeting. The investors were already impatient, but when I walked into the conference room with a look that dared anyone to complain, nobody said a word. I delivered the pitch, closed the deal, but my mind was miles away.

"Leo, are you okay?" asked Marcos — my assistant and closest friend — the moment we left the room. "You're off today. Quieter than usual."

"I'm fine, just a little tired," I said flatly, brushing past him toward my office.

But it wasn't fatigue. It was a strange restlessness. I dropped into my leather chair, stared out the window at the sprawling city below, and tried to work. Reports, emails, spreadsheets — none of it landed. My mind kept pulling me back to the scene on the street. Her on the ground, shielding her daughter. Her eyes full of tears, but fighting to be strong.

I thought about the car. The small scratch on the body panel. For me, it was nothing — a meaningless detail that would be fixed in an hour or simply ignored. But for her, that scratch must have felt like an impossible wall. She was probably convinced I'd track her down, demand payment.

Part of me wanted to have Marcos look into her. Find out who she was, where she lived, whether she was truly all right. But I knew that was insane. I didn't know her. She was a stranger I'd nearly run over. Nothing more.

So why couldn't I get her out of my head?

Late in the afternoon, I decided to leave the office early. I needed to clear my mind. Instead of heading straight to the apartment, I asked the driver to drop me in a quieter part of the city, near some of the older neighborhoods, where I could walk alone.

I didn't have a real reason. I just... wanted to walk. And as I did, hands stuffed in the pockets of my expensive wool coat, I caught myself drifting again.

"Get a grip, Leo," I said out loud, stopping for a moment. "She's just a girl who had a bad day. You've got your own life. Forget it."

I tried to convince myself. But something deep in my chest — right at the bottom of that emptiness I'd carried for so long — seemed to stir. A small spark. As if the universe had knocked on my door, very quietly, warning me that things were about to change.

I just didn't know yet that fate is stubborn — and that the woman with the brown eyes was already much closer to my world than I could have imagined.

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