Lívia was sixteen and lived in a small countryside town where almost nothing ever happened. Her refuge was music. A composer since the age of twelve, she often hid in the school's music room to play the old grand piano. It was there that she met Miguel, the new student transferred from the capital.
Miguel had a mysterious aura, a rebellious charm, and a small treble clef tattoo on his wrist. He was a guitarist and carried his acoustic guitar everywhere. Their first encounter was quiet—just glances and a shy duet between piano and guitar. But with each note played, an invisible bridge formed between their souls.
In the weeks that followed, Lívia and Miguel began meeting more frequently in the music room. She shared her compositions, and he improvised arrangements with gentle chords. Their connection grew not only musically but emotionally. They talked about favorite bands, future dreams, and the scars they tried to hide.
Lívia was introspective, the middle child of a family silently falling apart. Her father, a literature teacher, had become emotionally absent after losing his job. Her mother, a night-shift nurse, was always tired and distant. Marina, her older sister, was the opposite—outgoing, independent, popular. Their relationship was cold, filled with comparisons and silences.
Miguel came from the capital, now living with his grandparents after a family fallout. His gaze held the weight of someone who had seen too much too young, and he spoke with a frankness that both enchanted and unsettled. Slowly, he became the center of Lívia's musical universe—and eventually, of her heart.