دانلود رمان انگلیسی “عشقِ روحی”

It was December 2020. Brazil breathed fear. The air carried more than oxygen: it carried uncertainty, silent farewells, weary gazes. Sirens cut through the empty streets like metallic laments, and screens glowed like candles at a collective wake — displaying numbers that seemed distant, yet held names, memories, stories and affections. Lives — thousands of them — erased by a virus that stole futures as swiftly as the sun slipped below the horizon. Locked inside my apartment, I mourned friends and family. Time had lost its shape; silence was no longer merely the absence of sound. The ticking clock scratched at the walls, revealing how the days repeated themselves like gray copies of one another. The smell of coffee, cooling untouched, mingled with the still air. The echo of my own breathing reminded me that I still existed, even when everything around me seemed suspended. Loneliness was not just a feeling — it was almost a substance, dense and palpable, resting on my shoulders. I existed. But I wasn’t living. I inhabited an exhausted body, plunged into a deep depression. Chronic fatigue spread through me like a dense fog. Some nights, I slept for no more than two fragile, interrupted hours. Panic and anxiety did not merely arise — they screamed, demanding space within me. Memories no longer respected borders. They mingled with the present like long, insistent shadows. Time had lost its shape: it was not a line, but a circle; not clear, but murky, hazy. On many days, I felt like a spectator of my own existence, watching life through the window, unable to touch it, to inhabit it fully. And yet, something persisted. A breath. A quiet restlessness pulsed in my chest, like an ancient call. I needed to act. If I stayed there, that darkness would inevitably end in tragedy.