The forced “vacation” turned out not to be a lakeside villa.

  We were placed in a compound that might once have been a school or a monastery, surrounded by three-meter-high walls and guarded by soldiers whose rifles looked better polished than their own welfare.

  There was a small garden in the center, where my younger sister Eleanor ran around chasing butterflies as if the outside world were not undergoing a bloody change of government.

  “Look! Blue!” she shouted, hopping excitedly.

  I sat on a garden bench, watching.

  This was day fifteen. Fifteen days since the radio first spoke my father’s name. Fifteen days since a normal life—whatever normal meant for a reincarnated child—had ended.

  My mother, Sofia, looked ten years older.

  She still smiled. She still fixed Isabella’s neatly tied hair. She still read to us at night.

  But her eyes—once warm like afternoon coffee—were now cold and alert. She no longer looked out the windows to enjoy the view, but to make sure no threats were approaching.

  Isabella, eleven years old, chose silence. She spent her days reading history books she found in the compound’s small library. I once glanced at the title:

  The Rise and Fall of City-States.

  Hardly light reading for a child her age.

  And Father… Father never came.

  That was the worst part.

  The man who once could sit for hours holding me in an old chair had become a ghost ruling the country. His name appeared in newspapers occasionally brought in by aides. His face appeared in blurry black-and-white photographs in front of palace backdrops.

  But he himself was absent.

  I understood the theory. A coup was not a birthday party. There were consolidations, purges, negotiations, threats.

  But for a ten-year-old—at least physically—his absence felt like a quiet betrayal.

  ***

  On the sixteenth night, I woke up to a sound.

  Not loud. Just the creak of a door, heavy footsteps, and a weary sigh I knew too well. I opened my eyes. Hallway light framed a large silhouette in my doorway.

  “Father?” I murmured, pretending to be half-asleep.

  He paused. “Go back to sleep, Mateo.”

  “You’re home?”

  “For a while.”

  He entered and sat on the edge of my bed. His uniform was still on. He smelled of tobacco, sweat, and something sharp—the scent of tension.

  Under the dim light, his face looked like a cracked statue. Deep shadows beneath his eyes. Hard lines around a mouth that once occasionally curved into a smile.

  “Are you president now?” I asked, keeping my voice childishly innocent.

  He exhaled. “There are many names for it. Interim Leader. Chairman of the Council. Head of State.”

  “But you make the rules?”

  “Rules…” He repeated the word as if it were foreign. “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.

  “Harder than I expected,” he admitted at last, his voice low. “Toppling someone is like smashing a vase. Fast. Loud. Done. But cleaning up the shards… deciding what kind of vase to make next—that takes time. And the shards are sharp.”

  The vase metaphor again.

  I nodded as if I understood. Internally, I noted it: he was exhausted. His idealism had likely peaked and was already eroding.

  “Is anyone helping you?” I asked.

  “Many people.”

  “Your old friends?”

  He was silent for too long. “Some. Others… are new people. People who understand what needs to be done.”

  New people.

  In my previous world’s history, “new people” after a coup usually meant opportunists, realists, and professional survivors.

  “Are they good people?” I asked, carefully innocent.

  He gave a short, humorless laugh. “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. “Sleep. Tomorrow… maybe we can eat together.”

  He was gone before dawn.

  ***

  Lunch the next day became my first lesson in child-sized realpolitik.

  We ate in a dining hall with a table long enough for twenty people, yet only four chairs were occupied at one end—an island in a sea of polished oak.

  Eleanor, as always, provided effortless comedy.

  “Why is the table so big?” she asked, her voice echoing. “I have to shout so Isabella can hear me!”

  “You don’t need to shout,” Isabella replied calmly. “You can speak quietly like a civilized person.”

  “But that’s boring!” Eleanor tapped her spoon against her glass. “Listen! It sounds nice!”

  “Stop that,” Mother scolded—half-heartedly. Her eyes were fixed on the door.

  I carefully cut my chicken—fine motor skills were still a ten-year-old enemy—while analyzing the situation.

  We were safe, but not comfortable.

  There were guards everywhere. And there were visitors—men in neat uniforms with constantly shifting eyes. They observed.

  They were called “Father’s staff,” but they carried no folders or reports.

  They carried atmosphere.

  The ordinary soldiers guarding the gate sometimes waved at Eleanor. They smiled when she ran to the fence.

  That was human.

  But the staff never smiled.

  They were machines wrapped in flesh and fabric.

  “Mother,” I whispered while Isabella organized her books and Eleanor built a castle out of mashed potatoes, “who were the people who visited yesterday?”

  Mother looked at me closely. “Why do you ask?”

  “They’re… different from the soldiers at the gate.”

  She sighed. “They’re part of your father’s new government. Bureaucrats. Advisors.”

  “Are they Father’s friends?”

  “They are allies,” she said carefully. “And in politics, allies are not always friends.”

  Lesson two: politics begins at the dinner table.

  A few days later, the allies returned—with Father.

  They entered the study, now converted into a temporary office. I happened to be—purely by coincidence, of course—looking for a book in the adjacent room. The double doors between us were not fully closed.

  Their voices carried clearly.

  “General, the student groups at Nacional University are still resisting. My proposal: close the campus and arrest their leaders.”

  “That would make us look repressive, Carlos. We need legitimacy, not fear.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Legitimacy comes from stability, General,” the voice lowered dangerously, “and fear is the most effective stabilizing tool.”

  I recognized that voice. Colonel Carlos Mendez. I had seen him once—a man with a neat mustache and eyes like fog.

  “We have a chance to build something new,” Father said. His voice was firm, but fatigue lay beneath it. “Not simply repeat the old regime’s mistakes.”

  “With respect, General,” a third voice—smoother, educated—interjected, “history shows that transitions require a strong hand. We can soften policies later, once our position is secure. Now is the time for consolidation.”

  The realists, I thought, pretending to read a geography book.

  They were moving. Father’s idealism about a “new vase” was being challenged by those who cared only about who held the vase.

  “And the workers’ councils?” Father asked. “They supported us during the coup.”

  “They’re demanding representation,” Carlos replied. “Unacceptable. The military leads. Civilians execute. That’s the principle.”

  “Principle—or fear of sharing power?” Father challenged.

  Silence.

  Then the smooth voice returned. “General, let me speak frankly. We have momentum. But momentum fades. Our enemies—old and new—do not sleep. Every concession will be exploited. Every softness will be seen as weakness.”

  I imagined Father sitting there, surrounded by those who helped him seize power—and were now subtly seizing the narrative.

  The classic pattern. After revolution comes Thermidor. After idealists take the fortress, administrators and opportunists claim the kitchens, treasury, and archives.

  I closed my book quietly. There was no need to listen further.

  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.

  My mind worked, combining thirty years of past-life experience with ten years of observation in this world.

  Problem: My father, Ricardo Guerrero, was a military idealist. He saw corruption, inefficiency, injustice. He and his companions—who now seemed to be disappearing—overthrew the old regime believing they could build something better.

  Reality: Power is corrosive. And the people he relied on to run the state were professional survivors. They didn’t care about a “new vase.” They cared about their seats at the new table.

  Dilemma: If Father resisted them, he could lose operational support. The regime could collapse—or he could be replaced by someone more cooperative. If he surrendered, he would become a puppet, and reform 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.

  I closed my eyes.

  What could a ten-year-old do?

  Direct intervention? Impossible. I would be labeled strange—then dangerous.

  Warn Father? He already knew. He wasn’t stupid. He was trapped.

  So only one path remained: indirect influence. Long-term thinking. And, above all—understanding the map of power.

  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 emotionally most vulnerable.

  Page two: MILITARY. Split into two groups: Father’s Loyalists (ideological coup participants) and Pragmatists (opportunity-driven). Carlos Mendez went firmly into the latter.

  Page three: CIVILIANS. Bureaucrats, intellectuals, religious leaders. Sources of legitimacy—or resistance.

  Page four: FOREIGN POWERS. Who recognized the regime? Who didn’t? Still unclear.

  Eleanor entered my room while I was writing.

  “What’s that?” she asked, curious.

  “Homework,” I replied quickly, closing the book.

  “Homework on vacation? Weird!” She shook her head. “Come play! There’s a cat in the garden!”

  “A cat?”

  “Yeah! Black and white! The guard says it’s good at catching rats.”

  A cat. Guards. Rats.

  Too obvious a metaphor—but the world loved irony.

  “Alright,” I said, sliding the sketchbook under my bed. “But don’t shout. We hunt quietly.”

  Eleanor nodded solemnly, as if I’d just shared a military secret.

  The cat was real.

  Scruffy fur. Sharp eyes. It sat beneath a tree, watching the bushes. Eleanor wanted to chase it, but I stopped her.

  “It’s working,” I whispered. “Watch.”

  We waited.

  The cat stayed still—almost motionless. Then, with a sudden burst of speed, it lunged into the bushes and emerged with a small rat in its mouth.

  “Wow,” Eleanor whispered.

  “It’s patient,” I said. “It knows when to stay still and when to move.”

  “But the rat’s pitiful…”

  “In nature, there’s no right or wrong,” I said. “Only those who survive—and those who don’t.”

  The words came out more cynical than intended. Eleanor stared at me.

  “You’re sometimes like an old man, Mateo.”

  “I’m a mature-thinking child, my dear sister,” I replied with a smile. “Let’s find butterflies again. Less dangerous.”

  Weeks passed.

  Father visited three times—always rushed, always with darker circles under his eyes. Our conversations grew shorter. More formal.

  One afternoon, he came alone.

  He sat in the garden, facing the sunset. I approached and sat beside him without speaking.

  “Before all this,” he said suddenly, “I thought power was about decisions. Choose A or B. Black or white.”

  He inhaled slowly. “Now I know it’s about choosing between lighter gray and darker gray. And sometimes the choice isn’t between right and wrong—but between acceptable wrong and unacceptable wrong.”

  I waited.

  “They want to arrest people,” he continued flatly. “People who are innocent—but inconvenient. Symbols of resistance.”

  “And you?” I asked.

  “I refused. But every refusal has a price. They say national security. They say stability.” His fist clenched. “Sometimes I wonder—what makes us different from those we overthrew?”

  The question hung like a blade.

  I chose my words carefully. Not too mature. Not too naive.

  “Father,” I said softly, “you said making a new vase is hard because the shards are sharp.”

  He nodded.

  “But… if we’re afraid of the shards, will we ever have a vase?”

  He looked at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe not all shards need to be thrown away. Maybe some can be put together again—shaped into something different.” I shrugged, hesitating deliberately. “My teacher said mosaics are made from broken ceramic pieces.”

  A long silence.

  “Mosaic,” Father murmured. “Not a single vase—but pieces arranged with intent.”

  “Maybe stronger too,” I added. “Because it’s already been broken.”

  He stared at me, a strange mix of surprise, sadness, and something like hope.

  “Where did you learn to think like this, Mateo?”

  “Books,” I replied, half-truthfully. “And watching cats hunt.”

  He almost smiled. “Cats?”

  “Yes. They’re patient. They choose their prey. And they don’t hunt every rat—only what they need.”

  He nodded slowly. “A good message. Thank you, son.”

  He said nothing more—but when he left that night, his steps were lighter.

  The next day, news arrived through Mother.

  Father had decided against mass arrests. Instead, he would form a “dialogue council” with representatives from student and worker groups. Closely controlled—but not prison.

  The Mendez faction was displeased. That much was clear from the sour expressions of the staff who visited that afternoon.

  But Father stood firm.

  For the first time since the coup, he openly used his authority against his inner circle’s advice.

  A small victory. Very small.

  But in power games, small victories prove viability.

  I returned to my sketchbook.

  On the MILITARY page, under Father’s Loyalists, I added a note: Still has will. Needs support.

  Beside Carlos Mendez’s name: Dissatisfied. Will seek openings.

  ***

  Two days later, an opening appeared—in the form of an unexpected guest.

  Antonio Ruiz, Secretary General of the Council.

  He wasn’t military. He was a former law professor who lent intellectual legitimacy to the regime.

  He visited the family with gifts—books for Isabella, a doll for Eleanor. For me, he brought a beautifully carved wooden chess set.

  “I hear you’re a quiet, thoughtful child,” he said with a smile. “Chess is a thinker’s game.”

  I accepted it with a nod. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Call me Uncle Antonio,” he said smoothly. His pale blue eyes examined me. “You resemble your father. Calm. Observant.”

  “Father says I’m too quiet.”

  “Silence is a virtue,” Ruiz replied. “But silence can also be misunderstood—as agreement… or dissent.”

  So this wasn’t a social visit.

  It was a test.

  “I’m just a child, Uncle Antonio,” I said innocently. “I like reading and watching cats.”

  “Cats?” He looked amused. “Interesting creatures. Independent. But even cats need owners—to feed them and give shelter.”

  We provide your safety. Remember that.

  “The garden cat catches rats by itself,” I replied lightly. “It’s independent.”

  Ruiz smiled again—but his eyes didn’t. “Independent as long as it stays inside the garden. Outside, there are many dogs.”

  The conversation ended shortly after.

  But the message was clear: we were being watched. Even the children.

  That night, I added a new page to my sketchbook:

  SURVEILLANCE.

  Name: Antonio Ruiz.

  Notes: Factional. Intelligent. Sees children as Father’s weak point.

  The following weeks became a delicate balancing act.

  Sometimes Father won—granting amnesty to political prisoners. Sometimes he lost—approving a press censorship body.

  Every victory exhausted him more. Every loss made him more bitter.

  I played my role: the quiet, slightly strange child.

  I read extensively—history, philosophy, even economics—but always out of “curiosity.”

  I asked naive questions that occasionally landed—but could always be dismissed as coincidence.

  “Father,” I asked one night while he reviewed my deliberately imperfect math homework, “why does a country need money?”

  “To pay for things it needs—roads, schools, soldiers.”

  “And if the money runs out?”

  “We print more.”

  “But isn’t that like… stealing?” I tilted my head. “My teacher said money has to represent something real. If we just print it, it loses value.”

  He stared at me. “You’ve been reading about inflation?”

  “An old economics book in the library,” I said. “I didn’t understand everything.”

  He explained simply—but I saw his mind working.

  Economic pressure was one of the regime’s greatest threats. And a conversation with a ten-year-old might—just might—offer clarity his advisors lacked.

  The peak came a month later.

  We were finally allowed to move from the “vacation” compound to the official residence—a grand house inside the government complex.

  More luxury. More servants. More guards.

  Also more eyes.

  Eleanor loved the fish pond. Isabella was quietly disturbed by the excess. Mother grew colder, more formal—like a queen in a gilded cage.

  I was given my own room with a large bookshelf. I filled it quickly with volumes from the national library—a small request, fulfilled instantly. No one refused the leader’s child.

  The first night, Father held a family dinner.

  Elegant food. Servants in every corner. Eleanor was confused by the number of spoons.

  “Which one’s for soup?” she whispered.

  “The outer one,” I said. “And don’t burp.”

  “But it’s fun!”

  “Not in our new world.”

  After dinner, Father gathered us in his library.

  “This is our home now,” he said. “But it’s also a fortress. Every word you speak, every action you take, will be watched and interpreted.”

  “Even by the servants?” Isabella asked.

  “Especially by the servants.”

  We were now part of the regime’s image.

  “Are we in danger?” I asked directly.

  “As long as I hold power, you’re protected,” Father said. “But power changes. That’s why you must be careful. And smart.”

  He looked at me when he said smart.

  “I understand,” I said.

  “So do I,” Isabella added.

  “I… will try,” Eleanor said seriously, which was oddly adorable.

  Father hugged us tightly. “I’m doing this for you. For a better future. Trust me.”

  We trusted him.

  But I noted quietly: good intentions are not enough. And he was beginning to use us as justification.

  That was dangerous—for him, and for us.

  ***

  Back in my room, I opened the sketchbook hidden behind a loose wardrobe panel.

  The final page I titled:

  LONG-TERM STRATEGY

  Protect the family—especially Eleanor and Isabella.

  Help Father preserve his ideals without appearing to advise him. Remain “the questioning child.”

  Study all players. Identify allies and threats.

  Prepare contingencies—for every outcome.

  This was no longer about surviving today.

  It was about positioning for tomorrow.

  Outside my window, the full moon lit the palace garden. Two guards patrolled, their shadows long and dark.

  This world was no different from my old one.

  Same humans. Same ambition. Different stage.

  I am Mateo Guerrero—ten years old, son of the new ruler—with thirty years of memories and a burden of knowledge that often felt like a curse.

  But I brought one useful thing from my previous life:

  In politics, survival doesn’t belong to the strongest or the smartest—but to the most adaptable.

  And I, reborn with full awareness, was the most adaptable creature in this palace.

  I closed the sketchbook and hid it.

  Tomorrow there would be another meeting. Another decision. Another chance for an “accidental” question.

  A small smile formed on my face.

  I died once thinking about loans and office messages. Now I lived thinking about power consolidation and family survival.

  At least this time, my mind was never bored.

  And amid all this danger, there was something almost amusing:

  In this second life, I finally had a clear purpose.

  To keep this mosaic vase from breaking again—or at least ensure its shards never hurt the people I love.

  That was enough to begin.

  To my dear readers, please remember to touch grass occasionally.

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