Father’s decision to go south was a calculation. I knew that.

  He was not a romantic who believed that the presence of a general among farmers would magically melt all the ice.

  He went because the numbers in his reports—and Diego’s slick, carefully chosen words—pointed to a crack that, if left alone, could turn into a chasm.

  But every calculation contains unexpected variables.

  Father left with a small convoy: two cars, six personal guards, and one secretary. No official announcement. No flags.

  A ghost of the state, traveling in an ordinary sedan.

  On the first day, Mother became the pulse of tension in the family. She sat in the music room, her fingers tapping the piano keys without producing a melody—only a monotonous rhythm of anxiety.

  Isabella wrapped herself in busyness—rearranging books in the library, drafting unnecessary study schedules.

  Eleanor, blessed with her noble obliviousness, asked only once,

  “When will Father come back with souvenirs?”

  Then she went back to teaching Coco a new phrase: “Very safe journey!”

  And me?

  I did what I could. I analyzed. I planned.

  My calculation was simple. Father went south to listen. That was good.

  But listening alone was not enough. He needed something to offer—and quickly.

  Not grand promises of agrarian reform that required laws and decrees, but small, concrete, immediate solutions. Something that could cool today’s anger while tomorrow’s promises were still being drafted.

  From the reports I had briefly seen—documents conveniently “forgotten” on Father’s desk—the main problems in the south were twofold: fertilizer prices had skyrocketed due to a new distributor monopoly, and coffee harvests were being rejected by factories under vague “new quality standards.”

  The first problem required market intervention—hard to fix in a week.

  The second?

  Administrative.

  And administration can be bent.

  ***

  My plan was born in my room, on graph paper stolen from the secretariat. I would write an anonymous “proposal.”

  An emergency certification scheme for southern coffee, using retired local agronomists, funded through the governor’s emergency budget.

  I would slip the proposal into the documents Father’s secretary carried. Father, desperate for concrete solutions, would see it, perhaps assume it came from his secretary, and implement it.

  It was elegant.

  It didn’t involve me directly.

  It gave Father a tool without him knowing its source.

  And most importantly—it could work.

  The first unexpected variable came in the form of Diego.

  He appeared two days after Father left, claiming he wanted to “accompany the family during a difficult time.” Mother received him in the living room with icy politeness.

  “News from the south is very encouraging!” he said, his smile radiating manufactured confidence. “My father has contacts there. They say the General’s arrival was met with… cautious enthusiasm.”

  “Cautious enthusiasm,” Isabella repeated, knitting beside him—an activity she had recently learned and now pursued with the intensity of a saboteur.

  “That’s like saying soup is hot but cold.”

  Diego laughed too loudly.

  “Ah, Isabella, always sharp! I mean that people aren’t fully convinced yet, but they want to believe. That’s a good start.”

  I observed him from the corner of the room, a history book open on my lap. Diego’s eyes never truly rested. They scanned the room, noting furniture, paintings, Mother’s expressions. He was a living audit.

  “Mateo, you’re very quiet,” he said, turning to me. “No thoughts?”

  “History teaches that a leader’s visit to an unstable region is often like surgery,” I said, closing the book. “The outcome is only known after the incision is closed.”

  Diego frowned slightly, then smiled again.

  “Wise. But sometimes the preventative procedure itself is what hurts, don’t you think?”

  The conversation continued in that uncomfortable tone. Diego was an expert at saying things without truly saying anything.

  He hinted at “strong support” from the business community (his family), “concerns” from veterans (possibly close to Mendez), and “great hopes” from the church (which had not fully embraced the regime).

  The subtext was clear: Father needed allies, and Diego’s family could be a bridge—for a price.

  After he left, Mother sighed tiredly.

  “That boy is like an eel soaked in cologne.”

  “And just as slippery,” Isabella added.

  I stayed silent. Diego was a distraction—but also a reminder. Father’s power network was fragile. He went south to reinforce one pillar while others in the capital might already be cracking.

  My plan to slip the proposal faced a practical problem: Father’s secretary, Felix, was an efficient machine—and profoundly uncreative.

  His briefcase was always locked.

  His documents were never left unattended.

  I needed access.

  Which meant entering Felix’s office in the administrative wing of the palace.

  That led me to the second unexpected variable: internal security.

  The palace had two layers of security.

  The outer layer—soldiers with rifles, gate checks—visible to everyone.

  The inner layer—a network of civil staff, administrators, senior servants whose eyes and ears tracked everything.

  I assumed that as the “general’s son,” I had freedom of movement.

  Partly true.

  I could roam corridors, visit the library, even the kitchens. But the administrative wing—especially at night—was different territory.

  My first attempt failed embarrassingly.

  I waited until late evening, after office hours. The corridors were empty, dimly lit. I walked calmly, carrying a book as an excuse. As I neared Felix’s office door, a night guard—not military, but a gray-uniformed civil officer—appeared from a corner like a spontaneously generated shadow.

  “Master Mateo,” he said neutrally. “May I help you? This area is closed after nine.”

  “Oh,” I said, feigning innocent confusion. “I’m lost. Looking for… a small library near the archives?”

  “The small library is on the second floor, east wing,” he replied without expression. “Allow me to escort you.”

  He did.

  No questions.

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  But the message was clear: my movements were being logged.

  Plan A failed.

  I needed Plan B: find an ally inside the system.

  That led me to the third unexpected variable: the Head Housekeeper, Mrs. Rosa.

  Mrs. Rosa was a woman in her fifties with a posture like stacked rulers. She ran the palace household with iron discipline and eyes that could detect dust from thirty meters away.

  She was also the only person Eleanor feared—for reasons known only to the two of them.

  I found them in the kitchen, locked in an epic confrontation.

  “Miss,” Mrs. Rosa’s voice was like a dull saw, “this jelly is for tomorrow evening’s banquet. Not for… floating ship experiments.”

  Eleanor, her face smeared with strawberry jelly, stood before a large crystal bowl. Inside, several cookies had sunk like tragic shipwrecks.

  “But Mrs. Rosa! Look, this is the Southern Fleet! And the jelly is the ocean! They’re fighting a giant monster!”

  She lifted a wooden spoon tied to a fork, creating a dripping beast.

  “That monster will be cleaned up by a very tired kitchen staff who have already worked ten hours,” Mrs. Rosa replied, though the corner of her eye twitched.

  “Now, Miss. Choose. Will you help clean this ‘ocean,’ or will your privilege of entering the kitchen be revoked for… one week?”

  Eleanor looked at the jelly, then at Mrs. Rosa’s immovable face.

  “I’ll clean it,” she said sadly. “But the monster must be buried properly.”

  “The monster will be disposed of with all due honor,” Mrs. Rosa promised solemnly.

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

  Mrs. Rosa turned.

  “Ah, Young Master Mateo. Would you also like to wage food war?”

  “No, Mrs. Rosa. I was just… appreciating a fair negotiation.”

  “Negotiation,” she said, watching Eleanor scoop jelly back into the bowl with intense focus, “is when both sides have something to offer. Here, I have authority. Miss Eleanor has… imagination.”

  She glanced at me. “If you wish to make a fair exchange, I may consider it.”

  I observed her method—firm, but not cruel. She was respected, not feared (except by Eleanor). And most importantly, she knew everything: who came and went, what documents moved where.

  She could be the key.

  Or an unbreakable wall.

  I chose a direct approach—with a childlike layer.

  ***

  The next day, I found her alone, inspecting linens in storage.

  “Mrs. Rosa, I need help.”

  She didn’t stop examining a napkin.

  “Help with what, Young Master?”

  “I want to make a surprise for Father when he returns. A small report. About the history of the southern region. To help him understand the context.”

  “A good school project,” she said, still not looking at me.

  “But I need some reference documents. Annual regional statistics. From the administrative archives.”

  Her fingers paused briefly.

  “The administrative archives are locked after office hours. Documents like that require authorization.”

  “Authorization from whom?”

  “From Secretary Felix. Or the General himself.”

  Another dead end.

  But I saw the gap.

  “Well then,” I said, injecting calculated disappointment, “maybe I’ll just make a report about… the cockatoo in the greenhouse. Much easier to access.”

  I pretended to turn away.

  “Young Master Mateo.”

  I turned back.

  Her face remained neutral, but her sharp gray eyes now studied me.

  “Is this truly for a school report? Or is there another reason… more urgent?”

  Silence hung between us.

  I could lie. But something about her honest firmness pushed me toward partial truth.

  “Father went south to fix problems,” I said slowly. “I want to help him. Even a little. But I don’t want to cause trouble by asking for official permission. Sometimes small things are easier done quietly.”

  Mrs. Rosa nodded very slightly.

  “Sometimes,” she said, “that is true. Especially when the one asking is a well-meaning child who wants to surprise his father.”

  She paused.

  “I will escort you to the archives tomorrow afternoon, after lunch. There is a one-hour window when the room is empty for cleaning. I will ensure the cleaners are… occupied elsewhere. You will have thirty minutes. Find what you need quickly. Copy neatly. And whatever happens—you were never there. Do we understand each other?”

  I nodded, heart pounding with relief and caution.

  “We understand. Thank you, Mrs. Rosa.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” she muttered, returning to the napkins.

  “You haven’t seen how boring regional statistics are.”

  My calculation was flawed.

  Mrs. Rosa kept her word. I entered the dusty archive room, found three years of reports from the southern province, and quickly copied key data: coffee production, fertilizer prices, distributor names, lists of registered agronomists.

  I even found a copy of the governor’s unused emergency budget.

  I drafted my proposal in my room—simple, direct language.

  Emergency Certification for People’s Coffee.

  Use respected retired agronomists (I listed three names). Funded from idle emergency budget allocations (I cited the line item). Simple process: sample crates at the local train station, on-site inspection, certification stamped within forty-eight hours.

  I wrote it in deliberately rushed adult handwriting, on plain paper.

  Perfect.

  The fourth unexpected variable—the one that shattered everything—was something basic:

  Logistics.

  I assumed the proposal would reach Father through Felix.

  I forgot one thing: Felix was not creative. He was a curator, not a creator.

  An anonymous document appearing in his files would not prompt “Brilliant idea!” but “Where did this come from? A trap? A security risk?”

  And that was exactly what happened.

  The next day, after I carefully slipped the folded proposal into a regional revenue folder I knew Felix would carry, I watched.

  Felix discovered it while checking documents before departure. From behind an upstairs curtain, I saw him unfold the paper in the courtyard.

  His face showed confusion—then caution.

  He glanced around, folded it, and placed it in his inner jacket pocket—not in his work folder.

  He didn’t use it.

  He quarantined it.

  I nearly hissed in frustration. Foolish. I had focused on content and ignored the recipient’s psychology.

  In an environment full of intrigue, ambiguity is the enemy.

  An anonymous idea—no matter how good—is a potential threat.

  The plan had failed completely.

  I sat in my room, staring at the ceiling. The failure was bitter—but educational.

  I wasn’t a perfect mastermind.

  I was a ten-year-old with an adult’s memories, but limited experience and incomplete understanding of this new world.

  Pragmatism requires accepting failure.

  Then adjusting.

  If the indirect path was closed, perhaps the direct one—or at least one that appeared direct—could work.

  I took a fresh sheet of paper.

  Not a proposal.

  A letter.

  From a son to his father. From Mateo—the “smart, caring child.”

  Dear Father in the South,

  I hope your journey is safe. I’ve been reading about the southern region. They’re famous for their coffee.

  In an economics book I read, it said trust is the key to markets.

  What if coffee farmers could get a quick “health certificate” for their coffee, from people they already know and trust? Like veterinarians for dogs—but for coffee.

  Maybe the old experts there could help. They must be bored in retirement.

  I also taught Coco to say “Fair trade,” but he prefers “Very good coffee.”

  We all miss you. Please be careful.

  Your loving son,

  Mateo

  The letter was simple, slightly childish—but carried the same seed of an idea.

  Most importantly, it had a clear, non-threatening source.

  I handed it to the courier delivering official correspondence to Father.

  A formal channel.

  Open.

  Unremarkable.

  It was all I could do.

  The rest depended on Father, the situation on the ground, and thousands of variables I could never control.

  ***

  While waiting, Eleanor resumed her war with imagination.

  She decided that if Coco could learn English, she could learn… “animal language.”

  “That’s not a real language, El,” Isabella said patiently.

  “Then how do we know what the kitchen cat wants? Or the birds in the garden? I’ll be a translator!”

  She spent two hours in the garden, sitting cross-legged before sparrows, chirping seriously.

  The birds stared—then flew away.

  “They talk too fast,” she complained. “I can’t imitate them.”

  “Maybe they’re discussing how strange the little girl staring at them is,” I said.

  “Or where to find the best worms!” Her eyes sparkled. “That’s important information!”

  I let her be.

  In our tension-filled situation, Eleanor’s madness was a necessary counterweight.

  While I planned and failed, she tried talking to sparrows.

  Perhaps her efforts made more sense.

  News from the south arrived in fragments, like a puzzle missing half its pieces.

  First, through official channels: everything was fine. Peaceful control. Productive dialogue.

  Then, through servant whispers: a small riot in a market town. A fertilizer shop burned. No casualties.

  Then, through Diego—looking more serious than usual:

  “There was an incident. Some local thugs tried to exploit the crowd. Security handled it… firmly.”

  Firmly.

  A soft word for something likely hard.

  Mother didn’t sleep. Isabella stopped playing piano and read obsessively—poetry, history, anything to calm herself.

  I felt helpless. My letter might have arrived—or not. And even if it had, it was just a childish suggestion.

  Then, three days later—silence.

  No courier.

  No radio call.

  Only quiet.

  The worst unexpected variable.

  The palace silence grew dense. Guards walked faster. Their faces blank.

  Mother finally contacted headquarters. The response:

  “Communications disrupted due to storms in the region. No need to worry.”

  Everyone knew it was nonsense.

  Dry season. No storms reported anywhere.

  At that point, calculations were meaningless. Planning was a joke. Only uncertainty remained—and guilt.

  That night, I sat in the library, not reading, just staring into the fireplace.

  Failure.

  My cleverness was useless.

  My knowledge from a previous life was useless.

  I was just a child, trapped.

  ***

  Then, the next morning—sound.

  Footsteps in the courtyard. Engines. And Father’s voice.

  He was back.

  We rushed to the front terrace. Father stepped out of a dusty car. He looked exhausted—deeply so. His uniform wrinkled. But he was whole.

  He smiled—a small, genuine smile—when he saw us.

  After embraces and tears (from Mother and Eleanor), after brief reports of “logistical challenges” and “difficult but ultimately productive dialogue,” Father rested a hand on my shoulder.

  “Your letter, Mateo,” he said quietly. “Very interesting. I discussed it with some old farmers. They liked the ‘coffee doctor’ idea. One of them is even a former agronomist.”

  He paused.

  “We started a pilot project at Hidalgo train station. Sample testing begins next week.”

  I froze.

  It worked.

  The direct, simple, childish path worked.

  “Do you think it will help?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.

  “It already has,” he said. “It shows someone in the capital is thinking about simple solutions—not just big politics. That’s what people want. Solutions, not ideology.”

  He looked at me.

  “Thank you.”

  That night, in my notebook, I wrote:

  Failure of Plan A: Anonymous proposal.

  Cause: Ignored recipient psychology (fear of ambiguity) in an environment of intrigue.

  Lesson: In paranoid systems, clarity of source often matters more than quality of idea.

  Partial success of Plan B: Personal letter.

  Cause: Non-threatening source (child), framed as learning curiosity, not instruction. Gave recipient control and paternal ownership.

  Conclusion: Influence does not always require concealment. Sometimes, displaying weakness (age, child status) grants access.

  My strongest weapon may not be hidden intelligence—but a predictable mask of harmlessness.

  I closed the notebook.

  Outside, Eleanor was arguing—with fear but determination—with Mrs. Rosa about whether Coco deserved coffee “as a reward for learning a new phrase.”

  “Coffee is for humans, Miss Eleanor, not birds.”

  “But he said ‘Very good coffee!’ He should try it!”

  “If he does,” Mrs. Rosa replied dryly, “we’ll have a talking bird with insomnia. A terrifying thought.”

  I smiled.

  Calculations may fail. Plans may collapse.

  But as long as there are ridiculous conversations in the kitchen, as long as Father comes home alive, and as long as I can learn from my mistakes—

  This imperfect thing will endure.

  Today, I learned how to fail properly.

  And that, in itself, was a small victory.

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