When the bloco finally dispersed into clusters of lingering laughter and sticky-sweet embraces, the Carnafunk top had lost some sequins and gained stories. It lay folded in Luana’s bag that night like a small constellation. She knew she would wear it again—on another street, another dusk—because it was less an outfit than a ritual. It carried belonging: to the alleys, to the rhythm, to the long breath of a city that refused to be ordinary.