O Que Deixamos Para Trás

Ricardo trabalhava no banco há doze anos. Era um emprego estável, com um bom ordenado e férias pagas. Todos os dias entrava às nove, saía às seis e deixava os problemas dos clientes à porta quando ia embora. Era uma vida organizada. Era uma vida previsível. E era exatamente isso que o incomodava: tinha deixado de sentir qualquer coisa por aquilo que fazia.

Ricardo had been working at the bank for twelve years. It was a stable job, with a good salary and paid holidays. Every day he arrived at nine, left at six, and left the clients' problems at the door when he went home. It was an organised life. It was a predictable life. And that was exactly what bothered him: he had stopped feeling anything for what he did.

O seu sonho era diferente. Desde criança que adorava livros — não apenas lê-los, mas tocá-los, cheirá-los, organizá-los por cor e tema numa prateleira. Sonhava com uma livraria pequena no Porto, numa rua com calçada portuguesa, com uma campainha na porta e um gato a dormir no balcão. Mas nunca tinha tido coragem de deixar o banco para perseguir esse sonho.

His dream was different. Since childhood he had loved books — not just reading them, but touching them, smelling them, organising them by colour and theme on a shelf. He dreamed of a small bookshop in Porto, on a street with Portuguese cobblestones, with a bell on the door and a cat sleeping on the counter. But he had never had the courage to leave the bank to pursue that dream.