The years rolled by swiftly, and now it was 1920.

  Mateo sat on a bench in the back garden of the Sun Palace, gazing at the fountain that continued its tireless flow.

  On his lap, a gray cat—Fantasma, now old and increasingly lazy—purred softly. Beside him, Eleanor, now fifteen years old, was busy painting, her tongue slightly protruding just as it had when she was little.

  Five years. Or more precisely, five years since the cleansing operation, since the executions in the plaza, since that ugly first tank began its trials. Time moved strangely—sometimes feeling swift, other times as if it hadn't moved at all.

  Mateo stroked Fantasma. His fur was still soft, though it was starting to thin in places. The cat purred louder, tilting his head, demanding scratches behind his ears.

  Coco, the cockatoo, had disappeared—mating season, so he was probably off enjoying himself somewhere.

  "He still remembers when you used to sneak him food behind the kitchen," Eleanor said without lifting her head from her sketchbook.

  Mateo offered a faint smile. "He remembers the milk, not me."

  "Maybe." Eleanor scribbled something, then held up her book to show him. A gray cat wearing a crown. "Fantasma, King of Cats."

  Mateo almost laughed. "He deserves it."

  From inside the house, Isabella's voice called out. "Eleanor! Help Mom in the kitchen!"

  Eleanor huffed but stood up anyway. "We'll continue later, okay? I want to draw you too—with a crown."

  "Don't."

  "Too late. It's already in my head." She ran inside, her hair bouncing behind her.

  Mateo sat alone in the garden. Fantasma remained on his lap, showing no intention of leaving. In the distance, white clouds drifted lazily. The evening air was warm, fragrant with the scent of roses from the bushes near the fence.

  Five years...

  In Europania, the war had finally ended two years ago. Three great empires—Prussi, Austri, Rusky—had crumbled. Brittonia emerged victorious but exhausted and impoverished. Francos, though also on the winning side, saw its economy in shambles. The world map was redrawn. New nations were born from the ruins of old empires.

  The T-1 tank of the past had evolved into the T-7. Sleeker, faster, with a larger cannon. Mass-produced in new factories outside Caraccass. One hundred fifty units lined military warehouses, ready to be deployed if necessary.

  New light machine guns called the R-4. Portable radios with a thirty-kilometer range. Long-range artillery capable of striking targets twenty kilometers away. Even reconnaissance aircraft—two prototypes, still in testing.

  All from his memories. All from the sweat of Ortega and his team. All from money extracted from corrupt officials, from new taxes, from foreign loans repaid ahead of schedule.

  Ortega was now the Minister of Research and Technology. His white coat had been replaced by expensive suits, but his eyes remained swollen—the habit of working overtime never left him.

  And the ADF? They remained silent. After the Europanian war ended, they were busy with their own affairs. But Mateo knew that silence didn't mean forgetfulness. Intelligence reports still tracked their ship movements in northern waters. Agents were still captured and quietly "repatriated." A cold war, before the term itself had been coined.

  But this evening, there was no war. No reports. No intelligence.

  Just Mateo, Fantasma, and the fountain.

  ***

  Nighttime in the Family Dining Room.

  The long mahogany table, just as it had been five years ago. But now it felt warmer—or at least, Mateo perceived it that way.

  Sofia sat at the head, ladling soup into bowls. Isabella beside her, helping. Eleanor was already seated, impatiently spooning her soup. Across from her, Ricardo's chair sat empty.

  "Father hasn't come down yet?" Mateo asked.

  Sofia didn't answer. But her hand paused momentarily over the ladle.

  Isabella glanced at Mateo. That look—quick, anxious—was enough to silence him.

  "Your father is tired," Sofia finally said. "Let's start without him."

  They ate in an unusual silence. Eleanor, who normally chattered, ate slowly, her eyes occasionally flickering toward the stairs, waiting for her father.

  Mateo set down his spoon. "What's going on?"

  Isabella exhaled. "Father... hasn't left his room for two days. Just sleeps. Mother called a doctor."

  Doctor. That word never boded well in this family.

  Sofia remained silent. Her face was composed, but in the corners of her eyes, something—not tears, but the痕迹 of tears.

  "Let's wait," she said. "Maybe tomorrow he'll be better."

  Eleanor looked down. Her hand gripped her spoon tightly.

  Mateo rose from his chair. "I'm going upstairs."

  Sofia looked at him. "Mateo..."

  He was already walking.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Ricardo's Room.

  The door to that room had never been locked. But tonight, as Mateo opened it, he felt as though he were entering a stranger's space.

  The smell of medicine. A scent that shouldn't exist in the room of his father—always robust, always authoritative.

  Ricardo lay in bed. His body—once like a rock formation—had shrunk. The blanket covered him to the chest, but the hand resting atop it looked thin, veins prominent.

  Beside the bed stood a small table. Medicine bottles. A half-empty glass of water. And—an ashtray full of cigarette butts.

  Mateo stood at the threshold, motionless.

  Ricardo opened his eyes. It took a few moments to focus, then he smiled—a thin, tired smile, but still his father's smile.

  "Come in, Son. Don't just stand there."

  Mateo stepped inside.

  "Father didn't come down for dinner. They're worried."

  "I'm not hungry." Ricardo tried to sit up slightly, but a cough stopped him. A deep, heavy cough, as if something in his chest refused to come out.

  Mateo reached for the glass of water, helping him drink. Ricardo's hands were cold.

  "What did the doctor say?"

  Ricardo exhaled slowly. Long. "The doctor said I drink too much alcohol, smoke too much, have too much stress, spend too much... time being president."

  "Father—"

  "Enough, Mateo." Ricardo looked at him. His eyes were still sharp, even as his body withered. "I know. I've known for a long time. But if I listened to the doctor, I'd have to stop being president first. And you know that's not possible."

  Mateo was silent.

  "The pressure, Son. Not just from outside, but from within too. Every day someone wants this, wants that. Every day someone's dissatisfied. Every day someone wants to bring us down." Ricardo coughed again, shorter this time. "You handle most of it, but the burden still rests on my shoulders. I'm the president. I have to perform. I have to give speeches. I have to smile in front of cameras while inside—" he paused.

  Mateo waited.

  "—while inside, I just want to sit in the garden, watch you children play, watch Eleanor laugh. Simple things."

  Ricardo smiled. But the smile didn't reach his eyes.

  Mateo held his cold, thin hand. The hand that had once gripped his own tightly when he was small, the first time he was taken to the president's office.

  "Father, you needs to rest."

  "Yes, rest. But you know—" Ricardo stared at the ceiling. "—rest won't heal this. The doctor says my lungs are... already damaged. My liver too."

  Mateo said nothing. In his chest, something tightened—not panic, not sadness. But something cold and heavy.

  "Don't worry," Ricardo said. "There's still time. A few months, maybe a year. Enough."

  Enough for what? Mateo didn't ask. He feared the answer.

  ***

  The Family Room.

  Mateo descended again. Isabella was sitting on the sofa, holding a cup of untouched tea. Eleanor was gone—probably in her room, probably asleep.

  Sofia sat in a chair near the window, staring into the darkness outside. Her face was calm, but her back was tense.

  "How is he?" Isabella asked.

  Mateo sat across from her. "Father says... there's still time. A few months, maybe a year."

  Isabella looked down. Her hand trembled slightly, causing ripples in her tea.

  Sofia didn't move. But her back seemed to sink slightly, as if the burden she carried had grown heavier.

  "I've known," she said softly. "For three months now. But Father asked me to keep quiet. He said not to disturb you children, not to disturb the operation, not to disturb—" her voice broke. She stopped.

  Isabella rose, sat beside her mother, and embraced her. Sofia wept—not loud sobs, but silent tears, shoulders shaking, hand covering her mouth.

  Mateo sat in his chair, motionless. Unsure what to do. In his family, he had always been the one who organized, planned, decided. But now, faced with his mother's tears, he had no plan.

  Only silence.

  ***

  The Back Garden.

  Mateo sat on the bench near the fountain. The water still flowed, indifferent to everything. Beside him, Fantasma suddenly appeared, leaping onto his lap without permission. The old cat curled up and purred.

  Mateo stroked him. Gray fur, soft. He remembered when this cat first arrived—small, mischievous, fond of scattering documents. Now he was old, lazy, only sleeping and eating.

  Time kept moving. In the distance, the lights of Caraccass City—once dark—now blazed with electricity. Factories that smoked during the day had their lights on at night—a sign of 24-hour production.

  All according to plan. All from hard work. But now, on this bench, with a cat on his lap, Mateo wondered: what for?

  His father was dying, and he could do nothing about it.

  Not like corrupt officials who could be arrested. Not like rebels who could be shot. This was illness. This was time. This was something beyond his control.

  For the first time in five years, Mateo Guerrero had no plan.

  ***

  The Next Morning. 7:00.

  Mateo woke early, as usual. But today he didn't go straight to his desk. He went to the kitchen, took a tray, filled it with toast, eggs, a glass of milk—a simple breakfast.

  Mother Rosa watched from the kitchen corner. Her eyes—old, sharp—followed his movements. Then she smiled faintly, nodded, and returned to her work.

  Mateo went upstairs. Knocked on his father's door.

  "Come in."

  Ricardo was already sitting up in bed, propped against pillows. His face looked fresher than last night—perhaps from sleep, perhaps from medicine.

  "Here." Mateo placed the tray on his lap. "Breakfast."

  Ricardo looked at the tray, then at Mateo. His eyes—sharp, but with something behind them. Emotion? Pride? Sadness? A mixture.

  "Did you cook this?"

  "I took it from the kitchen."

  Ricardo chuckled softly—a little cough interspersed, but a laugh nonetheless. "At least you're honest."

  He picked up the bread, took a slow bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

  "Good," he said. "Plain toast, but good."

  Mateo sat in the chair beside him.

  Ricardo ate slowly. Eggs, bread, milk. Simple fare. But in this medicine-scented room, a simple breakfast felt like luxury.

  When he finished, Ricardo set the tray aside and looked at Mateo.

  "I want to ask you something."

  "What?"

  "Take care of them. Your mother, Isabella, Eleanor." Ricardo stared at him intently. "Promise me."

  "Father—"

  "Promise me, Mateo." His thin, cold hand reached for Mateo's wrist. "I know you're busy. You have the country, your plans, your unfinished war with the ADF. But they—" his voice grew hoarse. "—they're your family. Don't forget that."

  Mateo looked into his father's eyes. The same eyes that had once looked at him with pride when he first proposed reforms. The same eyes that had watched with anxiety when he sent troops to Prussi. The same eyes that had trusted him when he handed over the seven-day operation.

  "I promise."

  Ricardo nodded. Then he leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes. His breathing was heavy but steady.

  Mateo sat beside him, not leaving. Outside, the sun began to rise. In this room, time moved slowly.

  ***

  Afternoon in the Garden.

  Eleanor ran through the garden, chasing butterflies. Fantasma sat under a tree, watching lazily. Isabella sat on a bench near the fountain, reading a book—probably about hospitals.

  Mateo sat beside Isabella in silence.

  Isabella closed her book. "Have you seen them?"

  “Who? Eleanor?”

  "No, Father."

  Mateo nodded.

  "How is he?"

  "The same. But this morning, he asked me to take care of you all."

  Isabella looked at him. "What did you say?"

  "I promised."

  Isabella was silent. Then, softly, "I'm scared, Mateo."

  Mateo looked at her. Isabella—his sister who was always strong, always critical, always questioning—now had tears glistening in her eyes.

  "I'm scared of losing him. I'm scared that when he's gone, we—" her voice trembled. "—we'll fall apart."

  Mateo took her hand. His grip was firm.

  "We won't fall apart."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  Isabella laughed softly—a bitter laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

  "The most honest answer from you."

  They sat in silence, watching Eleanor still chasing butterflies. Fantasma finally rose, walking lazily toward Eleanor, then sitting under another tree.

  In the distance, the sun began to set. Orange sky. The day was almost over.

  Mateo thought about what his father had said. "Take care of them." Not the country. Not the plans. Not the war with the ADF. But them. His family.

  Maybe he'd had his priorities wrong all along. Maybe what mattered most wasn't tanks, weapons, or strategy. But moments like these. Eleanor laughing. Isabella beside him. His mother knitting. Fantasma lazy under a tree. And Coco, off again seeking a mate.

  But out there, the ADF still lurked. Out there, intelligence still moved. Out there, the world didn't care about these small moments.

  He had to maintain balance. Protect them from external threats while still being present for them. Not easy. But he had promised.

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