Time passed quickly.
One year since the Brittonian warships appeared off the eastern coast. One year since my father signed the agreement with hands that—I realized later—had trembled slightly.
One year since idealism first learned its lesson about who truly held power in this world.
Now, it was September. The rainy season had begun, the wind from the east carrying the smell of wet earth and leaves falling from the mango trees in the garden.
I sat on the same bench, under the same tree, with Fantasma on my lap. The cat was fatter now. Eleanor fed him three times a day despite being told not to. His fur was still scruffy, but his yellow eyes remained just as sharp.
The palace had changed. No one said it, but everyone felt it.
The guards at the main gate no longer waved at Eleanor. They stood at attention, weapons against their chests, eyes straight ahead. The new palace staff moved faster, quieter, spoke less. The newspapers that arrived each morning were no longer three different ones—only one.
El Sol Nacional.
The others had closed, or been bought, or suddenly decided to "focus on more constructive issues." The same words, spoken in the same tone, as if every editorial office in the city had received the same inspiration at the same time.
Father was rarely home. That wasn't new. But what was new was the way he came home.
Before, when Father returned late, he would enter with heavy steps, take off his shoes in the hallway, and complain to Mother about exhausting meetings. Now, he came back with quick, decisive strides and went straight to his study without speaking to anyone.
Sometimes Mother followed. Sometimes she didn't.
I didn't know what they discussed behind those closed doors. But several times, I heard Mother's voice rise. Not shouting. But something worse than shouting—a suppressed desperation, like someone too tired to plead anymore, knowing they wouldn't be heard.
***
My tutors changed.
Professor Juan still taught history, but his frequency decreased. From three times a week to once. Sometimes once every two weeks. The official reason: "His schedule is full." The unofficial reason: someone in the palace didn't like how he taught.
I knew because one day, after class, he said to me in a low voice: "You must be careful, Mateo. Who you speak to. What you say."
I looked at him. "Even here?"
He smiled. A smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Especially here."
Vicente Reyes, my economics tutor, never returned after the third month. He was replaced by a young man from the finance ministry who read from textbooks in a flat voice and never let my questions stray beyond the assigned chapter.
I stopped asking questions.
***
Policy after policy.
Nationalization continued, though with compensation that drained the state's reserves. But Father didn't stop there.
Decree 48: Price controls on essential goods.
All prices were set by the government, below production costs for several commodities.
In theory: ordinary people could buy rice and wheat, oil and sugar at affordable prices. In practice: farmers reduced or stopped planting because they were losing money. Merchants began hiding stock. The black market flourished.
Decree 52: Land reform.
Plantation lands held by large families—including some of Mother's family lands—were redistributed to small farmers.
In theory: justice. In practice: the redistributed land was often unproductive, farmers lacked capital to work it, and first-year harvests dropped thirty percent.
Decree 57: Press control.
All newspapers had to register with the newly established Ministry of Information. Every edition required approval before printing. In theory: countering foreign propaganda. In practice: one by one, editorial offices closed, or changed owners, or began writing with the same voice.
Every decree had a name. Every decree had a reason. Every decree was met with applause at the palace, speeches in the plaza, and banners hung on main streets.
But I saw something else.
I saw Isabella's face as she read newspapers filled only with propaganda. I saw Mother sitting in the garden more and more often, alone, not speaking, just staring at the sky. I saw Eleanor no longer running through the garden—because the guards at the gate said it was "not safe," though no one could explain what the danger was.
And I saw Father.
In public, he was still El Revolucionario. His speeches still stirred hearts, his arm still rose, his voice still echoed in the plaza. But behind the stage, after the cameras went dark and the microphones were turned off, he changed.
There was something in his eyes that hadn't been there before. Not anger, not idealism. But something colder. Something that saw the world as a battlefield to be conquered, not a garden to be planted.
And what frightened me most was that he was listening to Carlos Mendez more and more.
Carlos never pushed too hard. He was clever. He knew exactly when to speak and when to stay silent, when to advance and when to retreat. Every suggestion he made was wrapped in words about "stability," "security," "the nation's future."
And Father listened.
One night, I heard the two of them in the study. I was passing through the hallway—not intentionally, but the door was wide open, and Carlos's voice came through clearly.
"...we can't do things halfway, General. We've started. If we retreat now, they'll take advantage. Our enemies don't sleep."
"Enemies?" Father's voice. "Who do you mean by enemies, Carlos?"
"Everyone who isn't aligned with us. Journalists still spreading lies. Old politicians hiding behind foreign embassies. Unions quietly organizing strikes. They're all waiting for us to weaken, all wanting to see us fall."
Silence. Then Father's voice: "Do you have evidence?"
"We have informants. Their speeches, pamphlets circulating on campuses, intelligence reports. If we don't act now, they'll move first."
"Act how?"
"Preventively. Not arresting or silencing. But preventing before they can do anything that might endanger stability."
I didn't hear the rest of that conversation. But I knew what "preventively" meant in Carlos Mendez's language.
It meant people disappeared. Not arrested—because arrests had procedures, records, limits. But disappeared. No one knew where they went. No one could ask.
I didn't know if Father agreed. But I knew that after that night, two names no longer appeared in the newspapers. A journalist who used to write for La Voz del Pueblo before it closed. And a union lawyer who had represented the 13,000 mine workers fired a year ago.
No one asked. No one dared to ask.
***
That night, at family dinner.
Eleanor had been sitting in her chair for five minutes already, her legs swinging impatiently. Isabella came in with a book in hand—she never stopped reading now, as if books were the only place she could find peace. Mother ladled soup into bowls with the same movements as before, but her eyes never quite focused.
Father arrived late.
We'd already started eating when the dining room door opened. Father entered in full uniform—meaning he'd just returned from somewhere. No one asked where.
He sat at the head of the table. A servant immediately served his soup. He picked up his spoon, took a sip, then set it down.
"There's something I need to tell you," he said. His voice was ordinary, like he was discussing tomorrow's agenda.
Everyone stopped eating.
"This afternoon, the Military Council decided to extend the transition period. The elections scheduled for next year are postponed. Until the situation stabilizes."
Silence.
I heard Isabella's spoon drop against her plate. She didn't pick it up. She just stared at Father with eyes that—I realized—no longer held the admiration they once did.
"Postponed until when?" she asked. Her voice was flat. I'd never heard Isabella speak to Father in that tone.
"Until the right time."
"When is the right time?"
"Isabella." Mother cut in. But her voice wasn't firm, just tired.
"We can't hold elections under these conditions," Father said. His gaze shifted from Isabella to Mother, then to me. "The country is still recovering. External threats remain. The opposition is still—"
"The opposition you're killing one by one?!" Isabella stood. Her chair scraped back loudly against the marble floor.
"Isabella!" Mother stood too. But Isabella didn't look at her.
"I read the newspapers, Father. I read what isn't printed. Fourteen journalists held without trial in the last three months. Three union leaders 'invited' to the defense ministry who never came back. And now elections are postponed." Her voice cracked at the end of the sentence. Not from anger. From something else.
Something that reminded me of her eyes back then—when we were still in the old house, when Father still came home in dirty uniforms and mud-caked boots, when we were still an ordinary family that didn't have to fear its own shadow.
"What happened to the father I used to know?" Isabella asked. Tears fell. She didn't hide them.
Father didn't answer. He just sat in his chair, watching Isabella with an expression I couldn't read.
Eleanor, seeing Isabella cry, began to cry too. Softly, like she had a year ago in this same dining room. I reached for her hand under the table. Her fingers were cold.
"Isabella, sit down," Mother said. Her voice was firmer now. "This isn't the place."
"When is the place, Mother?! When can we talk? Where? In closed rooms with more guards than guests? In a house that feels like a prison?"
"ISABELLA!"
Everyone fell silent.
Mother stood across the table, her chest rising and falling rapidly. But her eyes weren't angry. Her eyes—I saw them clearly under the crystal chandelier—were filled with something heavier than rage.
"You think I don't know?" Mother's voice was low. Almost a whisper. But everyone heard. "You think I don't see? I've lost contact with my brother because of the land reform decree. Our family's land was taken, and he hasn't spoken to me since. I've lost friends whose husbands were detained last week without reason. I've lost—" her voice caught.
I saw Mother swallow, steadying herself.
"I've lost my husband. Not because he died, but because he's become someone I don't recognize."
Silence.
The room was quiet. I heard Isabella's still-hitched breathing, Eleanor's held breath, my own breathing that sounded too loud in my ears.
Father didn't move, didn't speak.
He just sat in his chair, hands in his lap, looking at Mother with eyes that—for the first time in a year—looked like the man who used to sit in the old armchair in the old house, holding me on his lap.
"Sofia," he said. His voice was heavy. "I'm doing this for—"
"For what?" Mother cut in. Now her voice was no longer low. No longer restrained. "For the people? For the country? For our children's future? Ricardo, listen to yourself! Listen to what you're saying! All those reasons—I used to believe them. I used to stand beside you, on that stage, in front of tens of thousands of people, and I believed every word you spoke. But look at yourself now!"
She pointed at Father. Her hand trembled.
"You talk about enemies. About threats. About stability. But where are these enemies, Ricardo? Who are they? Journalists who write facts? Farmers who don't want their land taken? Students who ask why elections are postponed? They aren't enemies! They're the people you once defended!"
Father rose to his feet.
Not an angry movement. But the movement of someone who'd been sitting too long and couldn't take it anymore.
"You think I enjoy this?" his voice rose. "You think I'm proud of signing those decrees? I can't sleep at night, Sofia. Every night, I read reports, numbers, names. But I have no choice! This country—"
"WE HAVE A CHOICE!" Mother shouted. I'd never heard Mother shout. Never. "We always have a choice! But you chose to listen to Carlos Mendez. You chose to believe that the only way to survive is to become what you once fought against. You chose—"
"DON'T TALK LIKE YOU KNOW EVERYTHING!"
Father slammed his palm on the table. Plates rattled. Eleanor's glass fell, shattering on the floor, water spreading across the tablecloth.
Eleanor let out a small cry. I pulled her closer, arm around her shoulder.
"You don't know what it's like to sit in that chair," Father said. His voice was lower now, but there was a tremor in it. "You don't know what it's like to decide who lives and who dies. Who goes to prison and who walks free. You don't know—"
"I know what it's like to lose my brother because of my own husband's policies." Mother stood straight across the table. Tears streamed down her face, but her voice didn't crack. "I know what it's like to hear my friends whisper behind my back, wondering if I'm still the same person or if I've become part of this regime. I know what it's like to watch my children grow up in fear—Isabella, who no longer laughs, Eleanor, who no longer runs in the garden, Mateo, who…"
She stopped. Her eyes shifted to me.
"Mateo, who is too mature for his age. Because he sees all of this. Because he has to watch his father become someone he doesn't recognize."
I didn't move. Didn't speak. Just looked at Mother with eyes that—I hoped—showed nothing.
Father looked at me. Then at Isabella, still standing with tears on her cheeks. Then at Eleanor, hiding behind my arm, her shoulders rising and falling slowly.
And for the first time that night, I saw something in his eyes I'd never seen before.
Fear.
Not fear of enemies. Not fear of Brittonia. Not fear of the opposition.
But fear of his own family. Fear of the mirror they held before him.
"Sofia…" he said. His voice broke. "I… I don't know how to…"
"Enough!" Mother cut in. One word. But it was as heavy as if the whole sky had collapsed over that dining table.
"Enough, Ricardo. Don't push this further."
She sat back down. Her hand reached for her wine glass—still full—then set it back without drinking. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, but her voice was already calm. Too calm.
"I'm not asking you to stop. I know you won't stop. But don't drag the children into this. Don't use them as tools. Don't make them hostages. Let them be children. Let Mateo be an eleven-year-old who shouldn't have to think about the country. Let him think about his cat, about school, about the things children his age should think about."
She looked at Father. Her eyes no longer challenged, only tired.
"You've already lost yourself, Ricardo. Don't lose us too."
The room was silent.
Father stood where he was, hands at his sides, clenching and unclenching. Like he was trying to remember what it felt like to be an ordinary man. Not a general. Not a head of state. Not El Revolucionario.
Just a husband. Just a father.
He stepped forward. One step. Two steps. Toward Mother.
But Mother raised her hand. A small gesture. Enough to stop him.
"Not tonight, Ricardo. I'm tired."
Father stopped. His hands lowered slowly.
He looked at Mother for a long time. Then his gaze shifted to Isabella, still standing in place, to Eleanor, still hiding behind me, to me—and I realized I was still sitting silently with an expression too calm for an eleven-year-old.
I saw him see it. My expression, too calm. His eyes narrowed for a moment, like he was trying to read something he couldn't understand.
But he said nothing.
He turned. Walked to the door. And for the first time, I saw that Father's back was no longer as straight as it used to be.
After the door closed, Isabella left immediately. Her steps were fast, nearly running. I heard her bedroom door slam shut.
Eleanor still sat beside me, her face wet, eyes red.
"Brother," she whispered.
"Yes."
"Father… why did he become like that?"
I didn't know what to say. I just held her tighter, let her cry on my shoulder, and watched Mother still sitting across the table with her hands in her lap, not moving, not speaking.
Fantasma appeared from somewhere, jumped into Eleanor's lap, and began to purr.
I stroked Eleanor's head.
Outside, rain began to fall. Its sound on the roof, on the windows, on the garden. Washing everything. Washing this white palace, washing the garden where Eleanor used to chase butterflies, washing the bench under the tree where Fantasma used to sleep.
Washing everything except this room.
Here, everything was dry. But it felt like drowning.