The three of them, Quixotina, Dulcinéia, and Carlos, began to walk back slowly, the weariness in their limbs mingled with a pleasant sense of camaraderie in the air. The smell of grass and earth gradually gave way to the aroma of burning firewood from the first cookfires for dinner, which began to hang over the Republic.

  Quixotina's apartment was not small. Located in one of the newer residential buildings, constructed with treated wood and bricks made in the Republic itself, it had a spacious living room, which served as a common area, two bedrooms, and a small balcony with a view of part of the central square. By the standards of the Quilombo – and considering her noble origins – it was quite modest, but it was hers, earned through her work as a minister and teacher, and that gave her a silent pride.

  That night, however, the apartment was transformed. As they entered, Carlos, Quixotina, and Dulcinéia were greeted by a muffled, barely contained chorus of "Surprise!" that exploded the moment the door opened.

  Dulcinéia stopped on the threshold, her eyes wide as two full moons, her mouth open in a perfect 'O' of absolute shock. The room was full of familiar, beloved faces, illuminated not by the usual firelight, but by the soft, steady white lights of several illumination gems, which Quixotina always kept activated in holders around the room – a luxury she allowed herself, a small reminder of the lights of the mansions from her past, but now without the oppression.

  "Wha… how…" the girl stammered, unable to form a complete sentence.

  That's when she noticed the table. Not a lavish banquet table like in royal tales, but the large living room table, covered with a clean linen cloth, and on it, a true marvel: plates and more plates with small, golden fried snacks, chocolate-dusted little balls, white sweets rolled in coconut… and in the center, a simple cake, but decorated with some seasonal fruit and twelve little beeswax candles.

  "Happy birthday, my daughter!" Quixotina said, her voice choked with emotion, hugging Dulcinéia from behind and kissing her hair.

  The girl was frozen for a second, then an enormous smile took over her face, and tears of joy welled in her eyes. She was enveloped in hugs, first from her mother, then from her friends.

  The surprise then dissolved into an explosion of joy. Dulcinéia ran into the middle of the room, being hugged by everyone. Pedro was there, a wide, slightly awkward smile on his face, next to Aunt Vera, the elderly black woman with graying hair and eyes full of sweetness who was Zézinho's grandmother and a motherly figure for half the Quilombo. Fernanda, the Minister of Labor, was present with her daughter Carlinha, a girl with light hair and freckles who was one of Dulcinéia's best friends, and Fernanda's husband, Jorginho, a quiet man with an easy smile. Aqua, the Minister of Economy and a close friend of Quixotina's since her early days in the Quilombo, was in a corner, talking quietly with Pedro, but her gaze was warm.

  Aqua was also there, further away from the others. She is like a grandmother to Dulcinea, and a mother to Quixotina, always there when they needed her most.

  And, a little apart, near the balcony, were Silvana and Silvestre. The two orphaned siblings, and having participated in attacks on the quilombo—even though most people weren't aware—still seemed a bit out of place, hesitant. Silvestre, with his serious, protective manner, watched the activity. Silvana, the fourteen-year-old girl with pointed ears and a furry black wolf's tail, tried to make herself small behind her brother, her sensitive ears pressed against her head, picking up all the loud sounds of the party.

  "Come see, come see!" Carlinha pulled Dulcinéia by the hand, leading her straight to the main table, the focal point of the room.

  It was there that she saw the wonders: the mini coxinhas and golden pastries, the bowls of shiny brigadeiros and white beijinhos rolled in coconut. Her gaze, however, was inevitably drawn to the center. On a simple stand was a cornmeal cake covered with white icing. And on it, twelve beeswax candles, still unlit, waited.

  The party flowed for a while with the children playing with the balloons and the adults savoring the snacks, until Carlos, consulting his pocket watch (and estimating the time as best he could), decided it was the moment.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "Everyone!" he called, tapping lightly on a glass. "Time for the most important part!"

  Everyone gathered, forming a semicircle around the table. Carlos picked up a match.

  "First, we light the candles," he announced, like a master of ceremonies explaining a new ritual. "Each candle is a year of life. Twelve candles, twelve years."

  He lit them one by one, while a respectful and curious silence hung in the air. The small flames flickered, casting a golden glow over the white icing and Dulcinéia's fascinated face.

  "Now," Carlos continued, positioning himself behind the girl, his hands on her shoulders, "comes the chorus. Everyone sings for the birthday girl, and she makes her secret wish."

  He began to sing, alone for the first moment. The melody was simple, but strange to everyone else.

  "Happy Birthday to you…"

  With a gesture, he summoned the others. Quixotina joined in, her voice a little shaky with emotion. Pedro, then Fernanda, Aqua, Aunt Vera. Soon, all the voices in the room intertwined, filling the apartment with the song that, that night, was born as a new tradition in the Republic.

  "On this cherished date...

  Many joys, many years of life!!"

  Dulcinéia stood still before the cake, flooded by the sound of voices singing only for her, and being a bit shy, she turned as red as a bell pepper. Her heart pounded. She looked at the flames, then at her mother, whose eyes also shone.

  "May Mama always be happy. May we never be apart." The thought was quick, a pure wish. She filled her lungs and, with a firm, decisive blow, extinguished all twelve candles at once.

  Applause and cheers echoed. The light from the gems, which had been softened, returned to normal.

  "And now," Carlos said, handing the cake knife to Dulcinéia, "the birthday girl has the honor of serving the first slice. The first slice goes to the most special person. To whomever you want."

  Carlos cut the slice for her. Dulcinéia, without hesitation, her eyes scanning the faces around her – her friends, the adults who were like family – and settled on Quixotina. Carefully, she carried the plate as if it were a treasure, took two steps, and offered it to her mother.

  "For you, Mama," said Dulcinéia, her voice clear and full of love. "The first slice is yours."

  Quixotina accepted the plate. Her hands trembled slightly. The tears that had insisted on staying contained finally rolled, silently, down her cheeks. She didn't need to say anything. The look she exchanged with her daughter said it all: gratitude, unconditional love, pride.

  "Thank you, my flower," she managed to whisper, before taking a small bite of the cake. The sweet, familiar flavor, loaded with meaning, was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted.

  Carlos went on cutting the cake, and the birthday girl delivered slices to people special to her. Only after everyone had a slice did she take her own. Then the collective ritual of eating began.

  "Now, yes!" Carlos announced, cheerfully. "Everyone can help themselves! Little pastries, coxinhas, brigadeiro and beijinho! The party is for everyone!"

  It was the signal for a joyful stampede. The children crowded around the table. Carlos and Aunt Vera helped cut and distribute the rest of the cake. The brigadeiros and beijinhos, which until then had only been admired, began to disappear from the bowls, accompanied by exclamations of pleasure. The order was correct: first the ritual (surprise, singing, blowing out candles, serving the first slice), then the general gastronomic feast.

  As they savored the sweets, Pedro approached Carlos.

  "That thing about the first slice… it was beautiful," he commented with his habitual simplicity. "Gives it weight. Makes sense."

  Carlos smiled, picking up a brigadeiro. "That's the idea, Pedro. It's the little rituals that give things meaning."

  Carlos's gaze fell on the snacks and sweets.

  "Aunt Vera, this looks incredible," he praised, smelling the inviting aroma of fresh frying and cocoa. "The pastries are with ground beef, right? Miniature, perfect."

  The old lady smiled, showing a few missing teeth. "Yes, Mr. Carlos. Made just the way you explained. And those different sweets you asked for… brigadeiro, beijinho…" she wrinkled her nose, playful. "Weird names, but they taste good! The beijinho is so smooth."

  Interesting facts about the origin of the names Brigadeiro and Beijinho:

  Brigadeiro: This ubiquitous sweet at parties has a political and relatively recent origin. It emerged in the 1940s during the electoral campaign of Brigadier (Brigadeiro) Eduardo Gomes, a candidate for the presidency of the Republic. To raise funds and votes, his female supporters created and sold a new sweet, made from condensed milk, chocolate powder, and butter, which quickly became known as "the brigadier's sweet." Eduardo didn't win the election, but the dessert became so famous that it's much more remembered than he is.

  Beijinho (or Branquinho): Of older and less documented origin, the beijinho is made with condensed milk, grated coconut, and butter. Its name is purely affectionate and descriptive. It is believed to come from its appearance: a small, rounded white sweet, rolled in grated coconut that resembles snowflakes or something "pure," smooth, and delicate – qualities associated with a kiss. The analogy with a sweet, gentle kiss is the most popular and poetic explanation for the name. In some regions of Brazil, mainly in the Northeast, it is also called "branquinho" (little white one), a more literal name describing its color.