📖 Texto da História
I always treat my birthday like a small archaeology dig. I wake up early, not to unearth cake but to sift through memories — the loose coins of summer afternoons, the song that played the year I learned to ride a bike, the tiny card from my grandmother that smells faintly of lavender. Those things feel like clues to my origin, the map of how I became who I am. As much as presents and parties, the quiet pieces matter: a recipe folded at ninety degrees, a freckle pattern that insists on repeating, the way a certain streetlight softens at dusk. On my birthday I talk to those fragments like old friends, thanking them for the stubborn, ordinary work of building me. It's funny — there's a grief tucked between the candles, for the versions of myself that won't come back, but also a fierce joy for the ones that did. Celebrating, for me, is less about spectacle and more about tracing the lines that brought me here.