I pondered whether I would try to search my mother out. And decided that I wouldn’t. It was obvious from what Beatriz had described that I had only been a biological by-product of her life and was, as such, unwanted. Yet, this train of thought inevitably led me to the fact that I had ostensibly done the same as far as my own child was concerned. So how could I judge my mother harshly or believe she never loved me, not knowing the full circumstances of her decision?

However, if nothing else, the events of today had made me realise that the one thing I did want to do was to leave my son something that explained why I had made my decision. There was no moonstone necklace or grandparent desperate to adopt him. No clues as to where he’d originally come from. As Floriano had pointed out, there was every chance that the adoptive parents he’d gone to would not have told him his true birth story. But just in case they had, or would in the future and one day he went searching, I wanted to make sure there was a trail for him to follow.

Just like the one Pa Salt had left his six daughters.

I understood now why Pa Salt’s coordinates had led me back to A Casa das Orquídeas rather than an orphanage. Even though I hadn’t been born there, perhaps he’d known I would find and meet Beatriz, the only relative from my past who’d cared enough to search for me.

I also pondered again why Pa Salt had been in Rio at the time I was born and why, out of all the babies available to adopt, it had been me that he’d chosen. Beatriz had mentioned nothing about a soapstone tile being left with me when my mother had deposited me at the orphanage. So just how had Pa Salt got hold of that?

It was another conundrum I knew I would never find the answer to. And I decided that I must stop asking ‘why’, and simply accept that I’d been blessed to have had him as a wonderful mentor and loving father, who had always been there for me whenever I’d needed him. And that I must learn the lesson of trust in another human being’s goodness. Which, naturally, brought me back to the subject of Floriano.

Instinctively, I looked out of the window and moved my eyeline up to the skies. By now, he was somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. It was odd, I thought, after spending fourteen years existing in a void, having absolutely nothing to ponder, or if I did, not wishing to, that I found myself with so many emotions to deal with now. The feelings I had for Floriano had emerged suddenly – like the tight bud of a rose that blossoms magically overnight into glorious colour – and felt overwhelming, but also completely natural.

I missed him, I admitted, not because of some transient passion, but with a quiet recognition that he was now part of me. And somehow, I knew that I was part of him too. Instead of a mad desperation, I felt a calm acceptance of something that had begun between us, which needed nurturing if it wasn’t to wither and die.