That day, the sky was a brilliant blue.
I stood on the right side of the stage, behind a red velvet curtain that had faded in spots, and stared at the sea of people below.
The city's main square—Plaza de la República—had transformed into an ocean of heads, hats, and the occasional waving flag. From the elevated stage erected specifically for the occasion, the crowd of tens of thousands looked like a rippling carpet moving slowly.
It was hot.
Unbearably hot. My black shirt was already damp against my back, and the stiff collar Mother had insisted on that morning felt like it was slowly strangling me. Isabella beside me in her dark blue dress stood straight, chin raised, an expression she'd been practicing all week. Eleanor in her white dress on Mother's other side—I could see the tips of her shoes fidgeting impatiently, even if it probably wasn't visible from a distance.
Father stood before us.
His back was broad, his uniform perfectly pressed, and for the first time in weeks, he looked like the best version of himself.
His shoulders were squared. His head was high. His left hand held his speech—a neatly folded paper, barely wrinkled even though I knew he'd read and reread it countless times through the night.
Mother stood in her white dress to his right, exactly one step behind. Protocol, the adjutant had said. The Head of State's wife needed to be in that position, neither forward nor back. Mother didn't argue. She just nodded, smoothed her dress, and stood where she was told.
But her hand—gripping a small cream-colored bag—was clenched tight. She was probably nervous.
The curtain opened.
The roar came.
It wasn't ordinary cheering—it was a wall of sound slamming into my face. I felt it in my chest, in my eardrums. Tens of thousands of people shouting in unison, something I couldn't understand at first, then slowly clarifying:
"Guerre-ro! Guerre-ro! Guerre-ro!"
Father raised his hand.
The shouts in the square slowly faded. Like an orchestra receiving its conductor's cue, voice after voice sank, until finally only the warm wind blowing from the east remained, along with a bird—somewhere—stubbornly singing into the newly formed silence.
Father took a breath. And he began to speak.
"My people!" he said. His voice was enormous, echoing from speakers mounted on tall poles surrounding the square. "Today, I stand before you not as a general. Not as a ruler. I stand here as a son of this nation—a nation that has been sick for a long time, lost for a long time, and forgotten for a long time by those who should have protected it."
He paused. His gaze swept the square from left to right, slowly, as if searching for someone in the crowd.
"We all know what happened in the past. We all remember how this palace—" he pointed behind him, at the white colonial building looming behind us, "—became a silent witness to the excesses of a handful of people, while its people starved. We remember how state funds flowed into private pockets, how justice was sold to the highest bidder, how those who spoke loudly for truth were silenced by force."
The crowd was silent. No cheers. No applause. Only a tense stillness, like a rope pulled to its limit.
"But today," Father's voice rose, "today is different. Because today, we begin something new. Not just a change of face in this palace. Not just a change of uniforms guarding the gates. But a change in how we run this nation."
He lowered his speech. I saw his hand tremble slightly—or maybe it was just a trick of the light.
"I come bearing no sweet promises. I will not say that tomorrow you will all be rich, that tomorrow justice will be perfect, that tomorrow all problems will be solved. That would be a lie. And this nation has been lied to for too long."
He glanced briefly toward us—toward Mother, toward Isabella, toward Eleanor, who was now uncharacteristically quiet, toward me. Just a moment. But I saw something in his eyes I couldn't explain.
"What can I promise?" he continued, turning back to the crowd. "I promise one thing: I will not lie. I will not say the road ahead will be easy—because it will not be. There are those who want to see us fail. There are those who want this nation to return to its dark days. But I say to them—and I say to all of you—"
He raised his fist.
"We will not go back!"
The roar broke.
Not once—it came in waves. From the front of the square nearest the stage, the sound rolled backward, to the sides, to the alleys connecting the plaza to the surrounding streets. "Guerre-ro!" they shouted again. "Guerre-ro!"
I saw a woman in the front row crying. Tears streamed down her sun-browned cheeks, and she made no effort to hide them. A man beside her—probably her husband—held her shoulder while continuing to shout Father's name with a hoarse voice.
A boy, maybe Eleanor's age, sat on his father's shoulders, waving a small flag whose colors had faded from too much use.
Smiles.
Everyone was smiling.
I was smiling too.
I smiled like a ten-year-old proud of his father. I smiled like Mother had taught me that morning—"Smile, Mateo. The people need to see a united family. They need to see hope." I smiled wide, showing my teeth, occasionally giving a small wave when someone in the front row pointed at me and whispered.
Inside, something heavy settled in my chest.
It wasn't that Father's speech was insincere. He was sincere. Every word that came out of his mouth, I knew it was truly him. Not written by Carlos Mendez or any other advisor. It was him. Ricardo Guerrero, the general who believed in his idealism.
But I also knew that behind the curtain, behind the stage, in the rooms the people in that square never saw, the real battle was happening. And speeches—no matter how powerful—wouldn't stop people like Carlos Mendez from playing their game.
The applause continued to thunder.
Father lowered his hand, and slowly the square fell silent again.
"My brothers and sisters," he said again, his voice lower now, almost like he was speaking to a single person. "There's one more thing I want to say. Perhaps the most important thing."
He paused. His gaze shifted to the sky, to that cloudless blue, then back to the crowd.
"I didn't do this alone. Behind me—" he gestured toward us without turning, "—there is a family that has stood by my side since the first day. They are the reason I can still stand here today."
I felt Mother's hand touch my back, nudging me half a step forward.
"They," Father continued, "are what I'm fighting for. Not power. Not position. But the future—the future for our children, for your children, for a nation we can live in with pride."
Isabella gripped my hand. Her fingers were cold.
Eleanor, for once, was completely silent.
"Thank you," Father said. "Thank you for trusting us. Thank you for giving us this chance. I will not waste it."
He bowed his head. Just for a second. Then straightened, gazing at the square with eyes that—I realized—were slightly glossy.
And for the first time, I saw my father cry in public.
Not sobbing. Just a gathering at the corners of his eyes, quickly wiped away with the back of his hand. But it was enough. Enough to make the woman in the front row sob harder. Enough to make the cheers, which had begun to fade, explode again with renewed fervor.
"Guerre-ro! Guerre-ro! Guerre-ro!"
Small flags waved. Hats were thrown into the air. An old man on the left side of the square knelt, both hands raised to the sky, his lips moving as if in prayer.
I kept smiling.
My hand felt numb from Isabella's tight grip.
Behind us, the red velvet curtain swayed gently in the wind.
***
After the speech, after the thousands of voices faded, after the flags were folded and the people slowly returned to their homes with smiles still lingering—after all of that, Ricardo sat in his study chair and let his face fall into his hands.
The room was silent.
Only the ticking of the wall clock and his heavy breathing.
The door opened.
Carlos Mendez entered with soundless steps. Three others followed—two in uniform, one civilian with round glasses and hair slicked back.
"A powerful speech, General," Carlos said, standing before the desk with his hands behind his back. "The people were moved."
Ricardo lifted his face. His eyes were red, but there were no tears. "Any news?"
Carlos nodded toward the bespectacled civilian. The man stepped forward, opened his briefcase, and began speaking in a flat voice, as if reading a financial report.
"This morning, the editorial offices of several newspapers published articles calling the power transition unconstitutional. They're questioning the Military Council's legitimacy and demanding general elections within six months. Their circulation has risen forty percent since last week."
Carlos interjected. "We need to shut them down, General. Make an example."
Ricardo exhaled. His fingers gripping the armrests were white at the knuckles.
"Shut them down?" he repeated. "We just stood before the people talking about freedom, Carlos. Ten minutes ago, I gave a speech in front of fifty thousand people—"
"And tomorrow, they'll read newspapers saying we're no better than the old regime," Carlos cut in, his tone still smooth but with a steel edge beneath. "Public perception, General. We can't ignore it."
Silence.
Then another voice—one of the previously silent officers—spoke. "Maybe they don't need to be completely shut down, but we can control the narrative. El Sol Nacional is already loyal to us. We just need to ensure other newspapers don't spread hatred."
"Censorship?" Ricardo asked. "We want to become like them? Silencing anyone who disagrees?"
"Not silencing, General." The bespectacled civilian adjusted his glasses. "Editing. Ensuring the information reaching the public doesn't incite chaos. There's a thin line between press freedom and sedition. We just need to draw that line in the right place."
Ricardo was silent.
He looked at them one by one. Carlos with his neat mustache and fog-like eyes. The two officers standing behind, waiting. The civilian with his briefcase and round glasses.
They were all waiting.
"Fine," Ricardo said finally. His voice was hoarse. "El Sol Nacional becomes the government's official channel. We'll allocate funds to ensure their operations are stable. For the other newspapers—" he stopped, "—no closures. But every edition must go through… verification. If any are too aggressive, they'll be asked to edit. Not silence, but edit."
Carlos nodded, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward slightly. "And arrests? Some opposition figures are already making moves. There was a secret meeting two days ago at retired General Herrera's house."
"Evidence?" Ricardo cut in quickly.
"We have informants."
"Evidence, Carlos. Not informants. Not suspicion. Evidence that can be brought to court. If we start arresting people without evidence, we're no different from the old regime."
"General—"
"Evidence," Ricardo repeated. His voice didn't rise, but there was something there that made Carlos stop. "Gather evidence. If they're truly planning something illegal, we'll act. But no mass arrests without cause."
The room felt colder.
"Yes, General," Carlos said finally. But the way he said those two words—it wasn't agreement. It was a pause. This was only the first round.
***
The meeting lasted another two hours.
I didn't hear all of it. Only fragments that seeped through the door crack, through the hallway, through the whispers of adjutants passing with coffee and documents. But enough. More than enough.
Military budgets.
Regional appointments.
Purging the bureaucracy inherited from the old regime.
Names. Always names.
Every time Father tried to hold his ground, there was always a reason why "political reality" demanded concessions. Every time he raised a principle, there was always a "state of emergency" justifying exceptions.
And the officers—the ones who had stood beside him during the coup, who had led their troops to the Santa Anna Bridge, who had risked their lives to overthrow President Valdez—they just stayed silent.
I imagined them sitting in those leather chairs in the study, uniforms crisp, medals still newly polished. They listened. They nodded. They agreed with Carlos, or agreed with Father, or disagreed with everyone but chose not to speak because they were too tired.
Was it because they didn't know which side to take, or because—as I feared most—in a short time they no longer saw Father as a leader worth following because of his softness?
That was the most dangerous thing…
Not the enemies outside. But the doubt within.
***
When the meeting finally ended, chairs scraped, briefcases closed, and the officers filed out one by one with unreadable faces. Carlos Mendez was the last to leave, and for a moment he stood in the doorway, glancing back with a small smile before finally stepping out.
Ricardo remained in his chair.
One officer stayed behind—Antonio Guevara, a colonel whose face was already lined despite being only in his forties, who hadn't spoken a word throughout the meeting. He stood by the door, waiting.
"Antonio," Ricardo called.
The colonel turned.
Ricardo lifted his face. Under the dim desk lamp, he looked like someone who'd just undergone surgery without anesthesia.
"I need you to do something for me," he said, his voice so low. "Not as a subordinate. As a friend."
Antonio approached. He sat in the chair Carlos had occupied, but not behind the desk—beside it, like someone keeping an old friend company over coffee.
"What do you need, Ricardo?"
Ricardo rubbed his face with both hands. "I need you to watch."
"Watch who?"
"Everyone."
Antonio was silent.
"Not just the opposition," Ricardo continued. "Not just those who want to bring us down. But also—" he stopped, as if the next words were too heavy to release, "—also our allies. Our own friends. The people who sat in this room tonight."
"You don't trust them?"
Ricardo laughed. A short, bitter laugh.
"I trusted them when we fought together. But the fight is over, Antonio. Now they're starting to think about… what's next. About seats, about power, about how much they can take before someone stops giving."
He looked at Antonio. "I don't want you to arrest anyone. I don't want you to interrogate or intimidate. I just want you to watch. Record. Report to me if anyone starts planning anything—anything at all. From outside or within."
Antonio nodded slowly. "And if I find something?"
Ricardo closed his eyes. "We'll talk first. Before anyone gets hurt. Before anyone does something we can't fix."
The room fell silent again.
Antonio stood. "You know this won't be easy, Ricardo. These people won't stay quiet if they know they're being watched."
"Then make sure they don't know."
"And you?" Antonio asked. He stood before the desk, looking at Ricardo still slumped in his chair. "Do you trust me?"
Ricardo opened his eyes. "When bullets flew over our heads, you didn't run. You didn't hide. You stood beside me and we fought together. I won't forget that."
He paused.
"So yes. I trust you."
Antonio didn't answer. He walked slowly to the door. Then stopped.
"You're tired, Ricardo," he said. "Rest. There will be another day."
The door closed.
***
I heard Father exhale a long breath—very long, like air escaping a balloon that had been stretched too far. Then I heard the creak of his chair, heavy footsteps toward the window, and then only thick silence.
I stepped away from the door.
The sketchbook in my hand felt heavy.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I sat on the edge of my window, letting the cold night air touch my face.
Below the hill, the city lights twinkled like fireflies that never died. In the distance, a dog barked occasionally before being swallowed by the night again.
I opened the sketchbook.
The pages I'd scribbled on earlier now looked clearer. Not ordinary sketches. Maps. Circles with names inside. Lines connecting one circle to another. Large question marks in several places.
Carlos Mendez: the center of many lines.
I closed my eyes.
Thoughts that a ten-year-old shouldn't have spun in my head. About what had happened today. About Father's beautiful speech and the cruel cabinet meeting. About the people who went home with hope in their chests, unaware that behind closed doors, the real battle had only just begun.
I remembered Father's face when he stood on stage. His eyes glistening. His hand trembling slightly. And I asked myself: was he crying because he was moved, or because he knew—in the deepest part of his heart—that beautiful speech might not be enough?
That words couldn't stop people like Carlos Mendez.
That idealism, no matter how strong, would always lose to reality if it didn't have weapons to defend itself.
I closed the sketchbook.
I was also afraid that someday, to survive, I might have to become like Carlos Mendez. And return to what I used to be.
I didn't know which was more frightening: losing Father to power, or becoming part of power itself.