Primeiro capítulo — Hendrik

Kyiv, The City of First Steps

The cold struck me primeiro.

Not the kind of cold I knew de Lisboa’s winters — soft, wet, almost apologetic — but a sharp, crystalline cold that felt ancient, as though it had been waiting centuries just a greet me. Kyiv’s winter air carried a clarity that cut straight through the layers of my coat e into my bones, but instead of discomfort, I felt something else entirely.

I felt awake.

Snowflakes drifted down in slow spirals, each one catching the streetlamps e scattering their luz like tiny shards of glass. They landed on my coat, on my gloves, on the worn leather of my suitcase. I paused beneath the towering silhouette of St. Sophia’s Cathedral, its gilded domes glowing like suspended suns against the twilight sky, e for a moment I simply breathed.

Fifty-four years of life behind me, e yet I had never felt so much like a man standing at the começo of something.

My boots pressed into the cobblestones — uneven, ancient, alive com history — e I felt the weight of the cidade beneath my feet. Kyiv was not a place one merely visited. It was a place that demanded presence, demanded attention, demanded reverence. Every corner hummed com memória. Every building seemed a lean in, whispering stories of saints e soldiers, poets e lovers, triumph e tragedy.

And I, Hendrik Teixeira, a man who had spent decades measuring his steps e tempering his impulses, felt strangely at lar in its intensity.

I had come here com a purpose — a scholarly one, I told myself. To study the symbols woven into Ucraniano embroidery, the protective dragons e serpents carved into wood, the ancient motifs that had survived wars, occupations, e time itself. But beneath that academic pursuit lived a quieter truth: I had come because something in me was restless. Something in me was searching.

For what, I did not yet know.

The cold air filled my lungs, sharp e invigorating. I could smell freshly baked varenyky de a nearby stall, the smoky scent of klyonky roasting over open flames, the sweetness of pastries cooling on windowsills. Laughter spilled de taverns. Música drifted de distant courtyards. The cidade was alive, vibrant, unapologetically itself.

And I — a foreigner, a man com silver creeping into his hair e decades etched into his skin — felt strangely welcomed.

I walked slowly, deliberately, letting the cidade reveal itself a me. My blue eyes — eyes that had watched the Atlantic crash against Lisboa’s cliffs, eyes that had seen love e loss, beginnings e endings — took in every detail. The snowflakes clung a my eyelashes. The cold reddened my cheeks. And yet, beneath it all, a warmth stirred in my chest.

A sentido of possibility.

A sentido that something was waiting for me here.

I turned a corner e stepped into Market Square. Lanterns hung de wooden beams, casting warm pools of luz over the bustling crowd. Children chased each other through the snow, their laughter rising like bells. Elderly couples strolled arm in arm, wrapped in thick coats e memórias. Vendors called out their wares — embroidered shirts, carved toys, porcelain figurines painted com folklore scenes.

I stopped at a stall selling vyshyvanka shirts. My fingers traced the golden fio of a dragon motif — the same serpent I had studied in Lisboa’s archives. A symbol of protection. A guardian spirit.

The embroidery shimmered beneath my touch, as though acknowledging me.

“Ah,” a voice said beside me, warm e knowing. “You have an eye for the traditional.”

I turned a see an elderly woman com a kind face e eyes that sparkled com the wisdom of someone who had lived through both hardship e joy. She smiled at me, e in that smile I felt something shift — a small, subtle confirmation that I was exactly where I needed a be.

“This dragon,” she continued, touching the fabric com reverence, “is one of our most sacred symbols. It watches over those who carry it.”

I nodded, feeling a strange sentido of connection — not just a the symbol, but a the cidade itself. To its history. To its people. To something I could not yet name.

I thanked her e continued walking, the snow crunching softly beneath my boots. The cidade unfolded before me like a história written in luz e shadow, in cold air e warm hearts. And com every step, the restlessness inside me softened, replaced by a quiet certainty.

Something was coming. Something important. Something that would change the course of my life.

I didn’t know her name yet. I didn’t know her face. I didn’t know that she was already here, somewhere in this cidade, breathing the same cold air, carrying her own storms e secrets.

But I felt her. Like a whisper in the wind. Like a fio tugging gently at the edge of my soul.

Kyiv had brought me here for a reason.

And soon — very soon — I would understand why.