A few days after the telegram broadcast.
We were placed in the Presidential Palace—a white colonial building that rose atop a hill, surrounded by walls three meters high and guarded by soldiers whose weapons seemed shinier than their own well-being.
A vast garden stretched before the east wing, where my little sister Eleanor ran around chasing butterflies as if the outside world weren't currently undergoing a bloody transfer of power.
"Look! Blue!" she shouted, jumping with excitement.
I sat on a garden bench, watching.
This was day fifteen. Fifteen days since the telegram first mentioned my father's name. Fifteen days since normal life—whatever "normal" meant for a reborn child—had ended.
My mother, Sofia, looked ten years older.
She still smiled. She still smoothed Isabella's already tidy hair. She still read us books at night. But her eyes—once warm like afternoon coffee—were now cold and watchful. She no longer looked out the window to enjoy the city view from above, but to make sure no threat was approaching from the winding roads below the hill.
Isabella, now fifteen, chose silence. She must have vaguely understood what was happening, so she spent her days reading history books she'd found in the palace library.
I once glanced at the title: The Rise and Fall of City-States. Not light reading for a girl her age.
And Father… Father never came.
That was the worst part.
The man who could once sit for hours holding me in his old chair had become a ghost ruling a nation. His name appeared in newspapers delivered every morning by adjutants. His face appeared in blurry black-and-white photos against the backdrop of the same palace where we now lived. But he himself was absent among us.
I understood the theory. A coup wasn't a birthday party. There was consolidation, purges, negotiations, threats. But for a ten-year-old child—at least physically—his absence felt like silent betrayal.
Damn it. I shouldn't have spouted that nonsense back then…
***
On the sixteenth night, I woke to a sound.
Not a loud one. Just the creak of a door, heavy footsteps, and an exhausted sigh I knew too well. I opened my eyes. Hallway light from behind the cracked door framed a large silhouette in my doorway.
"Father?" I murmured, pretending to be half-asleep.
He paused for a moment. "Go back to sleep, Mateo."
"You came home?"
"Just for a bit."
He entered and sat on the edge of my bed. His uniform was still on. I could smell tobacco, sweat, and something sharp—maybe gunpowder that had long since soaked into the fabric.
Under the dim light, his face looked like a cracked statue. Dark shadows under his eyes. Hard lines around the mouth that used to occasionally curve into a smile. I realized he hadn't shaved his beard neatly like before.
"Are you the leader now?" I asked, keeping my tone childlike.
He exhaled. "There are many names for it. Interim Leader. Chairman of the Council. Head of State."
"But you're the one who makes the rules, right?"
"Rules…" He repeated the word as if it were foreign to him. "Yes. For now."
I sat up, pulling the blanket to my chest. "Is it hard?"
He looked at me, and for the first time since everything began, I saw doubt in his eyes—not doubt in himself, but in everything around him. His rough fingers gripped his own knee, then released.
"Harder than I thought," he finally admitted, his voice low. "Bringing someone down is like breaking a vase. But cleaning up the shards… deciding what kind of vase to make next—that takes time. And the shards are sharp."
I nodded as if I understood. In my heart, I noted it: he was exhausted. His idealism had probably reached its peak and was starting to erode under a weight he'd never imagined before.
"Is anyone helping Father?" I asked.
"Many people."
"Father's friends?"
He was quiet for too long. "Some. Others… are new people. People who understand what needs to be done."
New people.
In my previous world, "new people" after a coup usually meant opportunists, pragmatists, and professionals skilled at survival. They hadn't shed blood on the barricades, but they appeared precisely when power was already on the table, carrying briefcases full of plans, proposals, and smiles that were never mistimed.
"Are they good people?" I asked, careful with my false innocence.
He laughed shortly, without humor. "Good is a luxury concept right now, Mateo. What we need is competence and loyalty. Sometimes those two don't exist in the same person."
He patted my leg and stood. "Go back to sleep. Tomorrow… maybe we can have a meal together."
He left before dawn. His footsteps faded at the end of the hallway, followed by the sound of another door opening and closing carefully.
I couldn't sleep that night, my mind racing with thoughts about what I needed to do to keep this family safe.
***
The next morning, Isabella came to my room with a newspaper in hand.
"Look at this," she said, her voice weak. Her eyes were red, like she hadn't slept. Or like she'd been crying somewhere no one would see.
The paper was called El Sol Nacional. At the top, in large letters: THE REVOLUTION HAS SUCCEEDED — A NEW ERA FOR OUR NATION.
A photo of my father graced half the front page. A pose standing on the palace balcony—the same balcony overlooking the garden where Eleanor had chased butterflies yesterday—one fist raised in the air, the other holding a speech manuscript. Beneath the photo, in smaller letters: General Ricardo Guerrero: El Revolucionario.
"El Revolucionario," I read slowly, feeling the weight of the words on my tongue. They'd already given him a title.
Isabella pulled up a chair and sat beside me. "Read page two."
I flipped. A long essay titled The Revolutionary's Vision: Guerrero's Plan for a New Nation. The author wasn't named—just the initials "C.M." at the end. But I immediately knew who had written it.
"Carlos Mendez," I said without thinking.
Isabella frowned. "You know him?"
"I've seen him." I pointed to a photo on page three's corner, showing a man with a neatly trimmed mustache standing beside my father, wearing a colonel's uniform. "He comes here often. Talks with Father in the study."
"Colonel Mendez," Isabella read the caption. "Senior Advisor to the Military Council."
"He wrote this," I said, sliding my finger to the initials. "He started the title."
I read the article carefully. The language was too refined for a field officer—too many adjectives, too many exclamations about "the people's spirit" and "shared destiny." Every paragraph felt like it was building something, framing my father not just as a military leader, but as a symbol. As a savior.
In the fifth paragraph, there was a sentence that made me stop:
"This revolution was born from the awareness that our nation has long been lost under weak and corrupt leadership. Now, with a steady hand and a clean heart, El Revolucionario will lead us toward a better future—not with promises, but with action. And the first action is order."
"Order," I muttered.
Isabella looked at me. "What does it mean?"
"I don't know." I lied. Actually, I knew exactly. That word, in contexts like this, always meant the same thing: we'll silence anyone who resists.
"Father once said," Isabella began slowly, "that after a war, the hardest part isn't winning the battle, but winning people's hearts. Maybe this is his way. These newspapers… to convince the people."
"Maybe," I replied, though I had my doubts. Carlos Mendez wasn't the type to care about anyone's heart. He cared about power. And the fastest way to secure power was to wrap it in a beautiful narrative.
I folded the newspaper neatly. "Can I keep this?"
Isabella nodded. "I spent almost an hour reading it. There were many things that… I don't think Father wrote. Or even knew about."
"You're smart, Bella."
She smiled faintly—a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I am smart."
***
Lunch the next day became my first lesson in practical politics on a child's scale inside the palace.
We ate in the main dining room, a long mahogany table large enough for twenty people, but only four chairs were occupied at one end. Eleanor, as usual, was an effortless comedian.
"Why is this table so big?" she asked, her voice echoing off the high ceiling. "I have to shout so Bella can hear me!"
"You don't have to shout," Isabella replied calmly. "You can speak softly, like civilized people."
"But that's boring!" Eleanor tapped her spoon against a crystal glass, producing a sharp ring. "See? Nice!"
"Stop that," Mother scolded—half-heartedly. Her eyes were fixed on the door at the end of the room, where adjutants were coming and going with folders and coffee.
I cut my chicken carefully—fine motor skills were still my enemy as a ten-year-old—while analyzing the situation.
We were safe, but not comfortable.
Guards were everywhere. And there were visitors—men in crisp uniforms with eyes that never stopped moving. They observed. They were called "Father's staff," but they didn't carry ordinary folders or reports. They carried a different atmosphere: formal, stiff, like a funeral parlor.
The regular soldiers guarding the main gate would sometimes wave at Eleanor when we passed them in the morning. They smiled when Eleanor ran up to them and asked about their weapons. That was human.
But the new palace staff—the advisors and bureaucrats who came in a constant stream—never smiled. They were like machines wrapped in flesh and skin.
"Mother," I whispered while Isabella tidied her books and Eleanor built a castle out of mashed potatoes, "who were those people visiting yesterday?"
Mother looked at me sharply. "Why do you ask?"
"They're… different from the soldiers at the gate."
She let out a long sigh. "They're part of your father's new government. Bureaucrats. Advisors."
"Are they Father's friends?"
She set down her spoon slowly. Her gaze shifted to Eleanor, absorbed in her potato castle, then back to me. "They are allies, Mateo. And in politics, allies aren't always friends."
Lesson two: politics started at the dinner table.
***
A few days later, those allies returned—along with Father.
They entered the study in the north wing, now converted into the Head of State's official office. I happened—purely by coincidence, of course—to be looking for a book in the adjoining small library. The double door between the rooms wasn't fully closed. A two-finger gap was enough to channel voices clearly.
"General, the student group at Caracia University is still resisting. They're printing pamphlets, holding secret meetings on campus." That voice belonged to Carlos Mendez. I recognized his distinctive accent—a bit too educated for a soldier.
"Resisting?" my father asked, his voice tense.
"They're calling this regime illegitimate," Carlos continued, sounding casual. Too casual. As if he were reporting the weather. "My suggestion is we close the campus and arrest their leaders. A few days in holding cells usually cools down idealism."
Silence.
Then Father spoke. "That would make us look repressive, Carlos. We need legitimacy, not fear."
"Legitimacy comes from stability, General." Carlos's voice dropped, dangerous. "And fear is the most effective stabilization tool ever invented. The old regime used corruption to silence opponents. We don't need to bother with that. We have something cleaner."
I imagined Carlos Mendez standing in that study, perhaps with a thin smile on his lips, his fingers perhaps casually playing with the edge of my father's desk. The man with the neat mustache and eyes like fog—I'd seen him twice before, and each time, I felt something prickling at the back of my neck. An instinct from my past life that had never truly left me.
"We have a chance to build something new," Father said. His voice was firm, but exhaustion lingered beneath it. "Not just repeat the old regime's mistakes. If we use the same methods—just a different face—how are we different from them?"
"The difference," a third voice interjected—smoother, more educated, with the intonation of someone used to being in boardrooms rather than battlefields, "is that we have good intentions. But good intentions aren't enough to run a country, General. History shows that transition periods require a strong hand. We can loosen policies later, after our position is secure. Now is the time for consolidation."
I didn't recognize that voice. Probably one of the civilian bureaucrats brought into the new government. The pragmatists.
I heard the scrape of a chair. Footsteps. They were probably looking at maps or documents on the table.
"And the workers' council?" Father asked. "They supported us during the coup. They sent their people to the streets on that final night. Without them, we might still be fighting at the Santa Anna Bridge."
"They're demanding cabinet representation," Carlos replied. "Two seats. Unacceptable. The military leads and civilians execute—that was the initial agreement."
"The initial agreement," Father repeated. "Or are you afraid to share power?"
Silence.
I could imagine the looks exchanged among them. Carlos Mendez probably wasn't smiling anymore.
Then the smooth voice returned. "General, allow me to speak frankly. We have momentum, but momentum can fade. Our enemies—old and new—aren't sleeping. Every concession will be exploited. Every softness will be seen as weakness. And weakness, in our current position, could be fatal—not just for us, but for this entire revolutionary process."
Revolutionary process. Pretty words to wrap ambition in.
I imagined Father sitting there, surrounded by those who had helped him seize power—and were now quietly seizing the narrative.
A classic pattern. After revolution came Thermidor. After the idealists took the fortress, the administrators and opportunists claimed the kitchen, the treasury, and the archives.
I closed the geography book I'd been holding without really reading. No need to hear more.
The conclusion was clear: the battle for the soul of the new regime had begun—and my father was being cornered.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the night sky through my east-facing window.
City lights twinkled below the hill, distant and silent. In some house down there, perhaps a family was reading El Sol Nacional and believing that El Revolucionario would bring change.
In another house, perhaps a student was printing pamphlets in a damp basement, planning resistance.
My mind worked, combining thirty years of past-life experience with ten years of observation in this world.
The problem: My father, Ricardo Guerrero, was a military idealist. He saw corruption, inefficiency, injustice. He and his comrades—now seemingly disappearing one by one from the circle of power—overthrew the old regime believing they could build something better. He believed in the concept of the "new vase" he'd talked about that night in my room.
The reality: Power corrupts. And the people he relied on to run the country were professionals skilled at survival. They didn't care about a "new vase." They cared about their seats at the new table, about who controlled the budget, about which positions would be filled by their people.
The dilemma: If Father fought them, he could lose operational support. The regime could collapse—or he could be replaced by someone more cooperative. If he gave in, he'd become a puppet, and the reforms he'd promised would become empty propaganda.
And in the middle of it all was our family. Protected—but also unofficial hostages. Our safety was tied to his stability. If he fell, we fell with him. That was the rule of this game.
I closed my eyes.
What could a ten-year-old do?
Direct intervention? Impossible. I'd be considered strange—then dangerous. Child prodigies in authoritarian regimes never ended well.
Warn Father? He already knew. He wasn't stupid; he was just caught in a vortex larger than himself. Every coup general knew that after victory came the most dangerous period—when allies turned into rivals.
So only one path remained: indirect influence. Long-term thinking. And most importantly—understanding the map of power before it changed too quickly.
***
The next day, I began a personal project: mapping allies and threats.
My tools were simple: a sketchbook, memory, and observation.
Page one: FAMILY. Safest—and most emotionally vulnerable. Father's weak point, but also his strength.
Page two: THE MILITARY. Divided into two groups: Father's Loyalists (officers who joined the coup for ideological reasons) and Pragmatists (who joined for opportunity).
Carlos Mendez clearly fell into the latter group. But how much influence did he have? How many officers were under his command? That needed investigation.
Page three: CIVILIANS. Bureaucrats, intellectuals, religious leaders. Sources of legitimacy—or resistance. El Sol Nacional was clearly under a certain faction's control. Probably Carlos Mendez or his allies.
Page four: FOREIGN POWERS. Which embassies had recognized the new government? Which countries were still holding back? This information was hard to get from inside the palace, but not impossible.
Eleanor came into my room while I was writing.
"What's that?" she asked, curious, her eyes aimed at the sketchbook I quickly closed.
"Homework," I answered quickly.
"Homework during vacation? How strange!" She shook her head. "Come play! There's a cat in the back garden! The guards say he's good at catching mice."
"A cat?"
"Yes! Gray, his fur's a bit scruffy. They say he's been living in the palace garden before we came. Maybe he was the old president's cat."
I held back a smile. "Alright. But no shouting. We hunt in silence."
Eleanor nodded seriously, as if I'd just shared top-secret military intelligence.
The cat really was there.
Scruffy gray fur, sharp yellow eyes, a long tail with a slight kink at the end. He sat under a mango tree, watching the bushes near the garden wall. Eleanor wanted to chase him, but I stopped her with a hand.
"He's working," I whispered. "Look."
We waited. The cat was still—barely moving. His ears swiveled, detecting sounds from the bushes. Then, with a sudden speed that made Eleanor gasp, he pounced into the bushes and emerged with a small mouse in his mouth.
"Wow," Eleanor whispered, eyes wide.
"He's patient," I said. "He knows when to be still and when to move. If he rushes, the mouse runs away."
"But the mouse is pitiful…"
"In nature, there's no right or wrong," I said, and realized my words sounded too mature. I softened them. "Just what survives—and what doesn't. But don't feel too sorry, it's his food. Cats have to eat too."
Eleanor nodded, but her eyes were still on the cat, now carrying its prey to a corner of the garden. "Brother, sometimes you sound like Father."
"My dear sister, I'm his son, so that makes sense," I teased, pinching her cheek. "Come on, let's look for butterflies again."
"The blue one from earlier?"
"Blue, red, yellow, any color."
She ran ahead, laughing softly, and I followed with slower steps.
Behind us, the gray cat was already sitting under the tree again, licking its fur stained with mouse blood, eyes half-closed in contentment.
A simple scene. But in silence, I compared it to something larger. My father was like that cat right now: he had caught his prey, claimed his territory. But the problem was, the territory was too big to guard alone. And other cats were approaching, waiting for their turn.
I heard Carlos Mendez's voice in the study earlier, his smooth but poisonous words: fear is the most effective stabilization tool ever invented.
I wondered, did Father realize that the man who'd written that El Sol Nacional article and given him the title El Revolucionario was the same man offering "order" at a very steep price?
Did he realize that the process of making the "new vase" was being controlled by those who only cared about its shape, not its substance?
Or was he already aware, but his hands were too full to make a decision?
I walked to the garden where Eleanor was already crouched near the flower bushes. Blue butterflies fluttered around her, occasionally landing on her shoulder. She laughed softly each time a small wing touched her skin.
For a moment, the world felt simple again.
But the sketchbook in my pocket still held names and question marks.