The first days were politely quiet.

Geraldo didn’t push. He trailed behind Lira like a dog not yet fully trusted, deliberately tripping on streets that formed under her feet. When she made a river just to hear running water, he pretended fear and clung to the invisible bank. When she turned the sun to moon because her eyes were sleepy, he shivered dramatically.

Kids love an audience.

On the fifth day (or fifth hour, whatever), Lira stopped in the middle of a field she’d just invented and asked, without looking back:

“Do you have a name?”

“Geraldo,” he answered, like sharing a small secret.

“I had one,” she said, kicking a stone that turned into a butterfly and flew away. “But I forgot.”

Geraldo mentally noted: first useful crack.

That’s when the real work began.

Rule one (disguised as a game):

“Wanna play imagine-food? Whoever imagines the tastiest wins.”

Lira always won. Pizza that melted in your mouth, endless ice cream, soda that tickled your throat. Geraldo imagined beer. Cold, bitter, perfect. When she tasted it, she scrunched her nose.

“Gross.”

“Grown-up taste,” he explained. “You’ll like it one day.”

She tossed it away. The beer vanished before hitting the ground. But Geraldo spotted the pattern: what she rejected disappeared faster. What she accepted grew more solid.

Rule two (disguised as stories):

At night, when Lira forced darkness because her eyes felt sleepy, Geraldo sat beside her and told tales of the outside world.

“Out there’s school. Bedtimes. Doctors who make you take bitter medicine. Parents who fight and make up. Weekends that end Sunday night.”

Lira listened wide-eyed. The world reacted: grass greened when he mentioned parks, sky grayed with rain talk. She didn’t notice each detail he gave became a brick.

“Is there none of that here?” she asked once.

“Here there’s you,” Geraldo replied, voice low. “And as long as you don’t really sleep, here is forever.”

Lira smiled. The smile of someone who just got the best toy ever.

On the twelfth day, Geraldo pushed further.

“Wanna see something cool?”

He imagined a bar. Small, dingy, like the one near his place in Capão da Imbuia. Worn wooden tables, old cigarette smell. Lira entered curious. Sat at the counter. Geraldo ordered two imaginary beers.

She tried again. This time didn’t throw it out.

“It’s gross,” she said. “But… it’s not disappearing.”

“Because you let it stay,” he explained. “Everything you accept becomes truly real. Even the bad stuff.”

Lira went quiet. Took another sip. Grimaced. But finished it.

That night she created the first adult besides him: a fat bartender who served beer nonstop. The bartender didn’t speak. Just served. Lira thought it was funny. Made him dance. The man danced awkwardly. She laughed so hard the bar gained real brick walls.

Geraldo watched. Smiled. Counted seconds to the next step.

Rule three (disguised as comfort):

“You ever thought you can forget things on purpose?”

Lira blinked.

“Like what?”

“Like… the smell of hospital. The beeping machines. The needle in your arm feeling.”

Lira went pale. The whole world lost color for three seconds.

“I don’t remember that,” she lied.

“Of course you do,” Geraldo said softly. “But you can forget. Just imagine a black box, put it all inside, throw away the key.”

She tried. The world shook hard. A black hole opened in the sky and sucked in a chunk of cloud. Lira screamed. Geraldo held her hand.

“Easy. One thing at a time.”

That night she made the first box. Black, heavy, rusty lock. Threw in the alcohol smell, the monitor beep, her mother’s quiet crying. Locked it. Tossed the key into a river she invented just for that.

The river dried up soon after. The key sank. Lira slept (or pretended to) with a smile too big for her face.

Geraldo stayed awake. Walked the bar now filled with imaginary patrons drinking imaginary beer. All stared at him with empty eyes. He knew they were echoes. Bad copies. But they were the start.

By the twentieth day, Lira no longer asked about the outside world.

She made entire parks just to run. Animals that spoke in her own voice. Friends who never disagreed. Geraldo sat in the corner, drinking beer that never warmed, counting minutes.

Because he knew: the more she forgot the outside, the more real the inside became.

And the more real the inside, the harder to wake up.

One night, Lira came running, eyes shining.

“Geraldo! I forgot something today!”

“What?”

“My real name! I tried to remember and… poof! Gone!”

She laughed like she’d won a prize.

Geraldo raised his imaginary beer.

“Congrats, Lira. Now you own everything forever.”

She hugged him tight. The whole world glowed pink and gold.

Geraldo hugged back.

And smiled the smile of someone who just locked the last door.