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16:9 (horizontal) - • Lisbon’s Sleeping Beauty Reboot 🌙💙 A Moder...
9:16 (vertical) - • Lisbon’s Sleeping Beauty Reboot 🌙💙 A Moder...
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We met again the next morning at a viewpoint above Alfama, where Lisbon spreads out like a postcard. She chose the place, maybe because fresh air helped her fight the pull in her head.
Inês told me the simple version. She worked in marketing, bounced between jobs, kept her life light. But the sleep started a year ago after a “wellness program” offered by a company she used to consult for. It promised focus, calm, better habits. It delivered something else.
“I’ll be talking, walking, laughing,” she said, gripping the railing. “Then it’s like someone hits a switch. I can’t fight it.”
“You saw doctors?”
“All of them. They say stress. Anxiety. They don’t see what I feel.”
I took a chance. “Did they ever mention a patch? Something with tech?”
Her face tightened. “How do you know about that?”
“I do security work. I got a file.” I didn’t mention Tomás. “I want to help.”
A long breath. Then she nodded once, like she was stepping onto a bridge that might shake.
“There was a patch,” she admitted. “Tiny. Like a sticker. I found it after one of the first episodes. I pulled it off. Then I started getting calls from unknown numbers. People asking questions I didn’t understand.”
My stomach turned. This wasn’t a fairytale curse. This was a product. A system. Something designed.
I brought her to a clinic near Saldanha where a neurologist I trusted, Dr. Marta Ribeiro, agreed to see her quietly. Marta was calm but sharp, the kind of person who didn’t waste words.
During the exam, Inês fell asleep mid-sentence. Not a normal doze. Her body went still, her breathing slow, like she’d dropped into a deep ocean.
Marta checked her pulse and pupils. “This isn’t typical. It’s triggered.”
“By what?” I asked.
Marta’s eyes narrowed. “Could be sound, light, stress, a chemical signal. Or something implanted. Tell me about the patch.”
When Inês woke two hours later, her first reaction wasn’t fear. It was embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t apologize for what someone did to you,” I said.
She studied my face, like she was deciding if I was safe. “Why do you care this much? You don’t even know me.”
I wanted to say the truth: that something about her made me want to be better than I’d been. That I recognized the way she tried to smile through exhaustion. That I couldn’t stand the idea of her disappearing behind her own eyes.
Instead I said, “Because I’m here. And I can’t ignore it.”
Her gaze softened. For a second, Lisbon felt quiet.
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