The old radio, a 70s Philips model with a yellowed dial, played a backyard samba, the kind only the oldest folks knew how to sing to the end, with soul and voice. On the wall, framed photographs, some already faded by time and the sun that stubbornly invaded the barbershop: old clients with haircuts that marked an era, amateur soccer players with their muddy uniforms and toothless smiles, and even a councilman, with his solemn pose and impeccable pompadour. Miguel's barbershop was more than just a cutting point; it was a confessional, a stage for the small and great stories of the neighborhood. People came in to trim their beards and left with lighter souls, the weight of the world a little less oppressive.

In the swivel chair, old Zé from the workshop, a man with a generous belly who seemed to have swallowed a barrel of beer, his shirt stained with grease and the unshakeable habit of complaining about the government while getting a number two cut on the sides and scissors on top — always the same for twenty years, a routine as predictable as the sunrise. “Did you see how much they’re charging for a liter of oil, Miguel? That’s robbery!”, he grumbled, with the black cape covering his body like a cloak, transforming him into an almost monastic figure, oblivious to the outside world.

Miguel smiled with the corner of his mouth, a smile that didn't reach his eyes, attentive to the mirror, where old Zé's image multiplied. The comb passed firmly, tracing precise lines in the gray hair. The scissors sang their familiar rhythm, a sound that for Miguel was almost a melody, the soundtrack of a life he loved, but which was now falling apart. “Everything’s expensive, old Zé. But a haircut here is still the same price as always,” he replied, trying to keep his tone light, his voice free of the shadow of pain that accompanied him.

“Only because you’re good-hearted. Because as a businessman, you’re a disaster,” the old man joked, laughing from his chest, a hoarse laugh that echoed in the barbershop. Miguel laughed too, a forced laugh, but his eyes didn't follow the joy. The pain came as a sharp stab in his ribs, stronger than usual, a cruel reminder of the disease that was corroding him. He pretended it was fatigue, that the sleepless night was taking its toll, but the truth was that every breath became an effort, every movement, a battle.

The bell on the door jingled, a sharp sound that broke the routine. A boy ran in, Pedrinho, with a bag of warm bread in his hands, the smell of yeast and wheat invading the environment. “Mom sent me to leave this here, Uncle Miguel. It’s what’s left of today’s batch.” Miguel took the bag, feeling the warmth of the bread, a warmth that contrasted with the cold he felt inside. “Thanks, Pedrinho. Tell her I’ll stop by tomorrow to cut your dad’s hair.” The boy disappeared down the street with the same haste he arrived, a blur of innocence that Miguel watched through the display window. The sky began to cloud over, foreshadowing the storm.

“The rain’s coming today,” old Zé commented, oblivious to Miguel’s internal torment. “Yes, it is,” Miguel replied, as if talking about something else, about an uncertain future, about a decision that had already been made. He finished the cut with precision, a touch of the razor here, a splash of cologne there, a ritual he knew by heart, but which now seemed empty. Old Zé stood up, thanked him with a firm handshake, a gesture of camaraderie that Miguel felt as a farewell. “You’ll still be cutting hair in heaven, you know?” the old man said, slowly leaving, leaving Miguel alone with his thoughts.

Miguel stood alone for a moment, the silence of the barbershop now heavy, oppressive. He looked at the empty chair, then at his own hands, the same hands that for years had brought comfort and confidence to so many. His fingertips trembled, almost imperceptibly, a tremor that wasn't from fatigue, but from fear, from apprehension. He knew time was running out, that every passing minute brought him closer to the abyss.

He took a wooden box from under the counter, an old, worn box, as if visiting a secret altar, a profane sanctuary. He opened it slowly, the creak of the wood echoing in the silence. Inside, besides the new, sharp blades, there was a brown envelope, with two names written in hurried handwriting: “Donato” — and, just below, “final value.” Miguel touched the envelope, feeling the roughness of the paper, the weight of what it represented. It was the price. The price of Donato’s life. The price of Helena’s freedom. The price of his own soul. He closed the box, the dry, definitive sound sealing his fate.

The radio now played Alcione, a song of love and loss, the singer’s hoarse voice filling the emptiness of the barbershop. Outside, the first raindrop fell on the display window, slowly trickling down, like a tear. It was the beginning of the storm, the storm Miguel had sensed, the storm that now descended upon his life, washing away any remnants of his old existence.