Mateo stood beside the bench, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides. The girl still had her head bowed, shoulders rising and falling rapidly, breath coming in ragged gasps. She hadn't answered his question—probably hadn't even heard it.

  Seconds ticked by. In the distance, children still shouted while playing ball. Their voices sounded like they came from another world.

  Mateo sat down. It wasn't a conscious decision. Suddenly he was just there, perched at the far end of the same bench, a meter away from the girl. His body had moved before his brain could process the action. He stared straight ahead at the grass and trees, deliberately not looking at her.

  Let her know I'm not watching, he thought vaguely. Or maybe that was just an excuse he manufactured afterward.

  The girl's crying gradually subsided. From loud sobs to muffled weeping, then to heavy breathing occasionally interrupted by hitched gasps. The hands that had covered her face lowered slowly, wiping away tears with the backs of her wrists. She still didn't turn toward him.

  Mateo remained silent. A thousand sentences flashed through his mind—what to say, how to comfort, which words would be appropriate—but not a single one reached his lips. They all got stuck somewhere between brain and tongue, transforming into muteness.

  The girl drew a long, shaky breath. Then, without turning, she spoke. "Sorry." Her voice came out hoarse.

  Mateo glanced at her. "For what?"

  "I... I had a meltdown. In public." She wiped her face again. "It's embarrassing."

  Mateo had no idea how to respond. "It's okay" sounded too cliché. "You have a right to cry" seemed like a line from a book. In the end, he only muttered, "It's quiet here."

  The girl looked at him for the first time. Her eyes were still red, eyelids swollen, nose also red. Her face—perhaps too thin, too pale, with dark circles under her eyes. But there was something there. Something that made Mateo unable to look away.

  "You... a visitor?" she asked.

  "Came with my mother." Mateo answered briefly. No need to mention who his mother was.

  The girl nodded, then lowered her head again. Her fingers twisted the hem of her already-worn skirt.

  "You've been here all along?" Mateo asked. The dumbest question he could have posed, but it was what came out.

  "Yeah." She paused. "I... I shouldn't be crying. This is a good event. Lots of kind people. But..."

  She stopped. Her jaw tightened, struggling to hold something back.

  Mateo waited. Didn't push. Just existed there beside her.

  "My little sister." Her voice broke on the word. "She... two weeks ago... she died."

  Mateo froze.

  The girl didn't cry again. Maybe she'd run out of tears. But her voice trembled violently, like someone trying desperately to remain calm while the world inside her collapsed.

  "I took her to the hospital. In the city. She'd had a fever for a week, getting worse. Mother said, 'take her, quickly, don't wait any longer.'" Her breath hitched. "But I... I thought we could wait. Tomorrow, I thought. Let me gather some money first. Let me... let me—" Her hands clenched in her lap.

  "The next day, she couldn't get up anymore. I still took her, but... on the way, she... she held my hand and said, 'Sister, I'm cold.' Then she was silent."

  Mateo made no sound, no movement.

  "I beat my own head on the road. Idiot! Such an idiot! Why didn't you go yesterday? Why did you have to wait? Money can be found, but she—I was too late." She stopped, swallowing with difficulty. "She was only six."

  Wind blew through the leaves above them, setting them rustling. The sounds of children playing still drifted over faintly. The world kept spinning, indifferent to one life extinguished on a roadside cart.

  "I came here," the girl continued, her voice calmer now, weary, "because I heard there was help. Maybe... maybe if I'd gotten help earlier, if I'd known there were programs for sick children... she'd still be alive. That's why I came, to see, to... to—"

  She didn't finish the sentence. Probably didn't know how to end it.

  Mateo sat beside her, two fifteen-year-olds on a park bench under a tree—one crying, one frozen in silence.

  Inside Mateo's head, something was working. Not calculations. Not strategy. But something more primitive, more direct.

  Her little sister. Six years old. Died because her sister delayed one day.

  He thought of Eleanor, five years younger. Her perpetually cheerful face, always chasing butterflies in the garden, always asking for stories about fairy tales.

  If Eleanor got sick, what would he do? The answer came immediately, without needing thought: I'd do anything. Anything.

  "You," his voice emerged before he could stop it. The girl turned. "You... what's your name?"

  She stared at him, confused. "Ca... Camila. Camila Flores."

  Mateo nodded. Camila Flores. The name entered his head, stored in a different folder than usual. Not an intelligence folder. Not a target folder. But...

  "Camila." He repeated it, like testing how it felt on his tongue. "You... have any other family?"

  "Mother, still at home. I'm the oldest. Two more little ones, one girl one boy." She sighed. "Father left long ago, when I was small. My mother sells things at the market, but customers are scarce now..."

  Mateo fell silent again. But this time his silence was different—not confusion, but planning.

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  He had no right. No reason. No connection to this girl whatsoever. But—

  "I'll send someone," he said.

  Camila looked at him. "What?"

  "Tomorrow or the day after. I'll send someone to your house." Mateo spoke quickly, as he always did when planning. "They'll ask what you need. Food, money, work for your mother, school for your siblings. They'll take care of it."

  Camila's eyes widened. "You... who are you?"

  Mateo looked at her. For the first time, he realized he hadn't introduced himself. A boy on a park bench, neatly dressed, speaking like... like what?

  "Mateo," he said simply. "I know people. They can help."

  It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the complete truth either.

  Camila stared at him for a long moment. Her eyes—red, swollen, but still capable of seeing—narrowed slightly. Trying to read something in his face. Then, suddenly, she laughed. Not a happy laugh. A strange, bitter one.

  "You think this is a fairy tale?" she said. "A prince comes, asks a girl's name, and they all live happily ever after?"

  Mateo wasn't offended. "Not a fairy tale. Just... a promise."

  "A promise from someone I don't know?"

  "I promise."

  Camila looked at him. Five seconds. Ten. Then tears flowed again—but different this time. Not devastated weeping. A quieter crying, more... exhausted.

  "I don't know who you are," she whispered. "But if you're lying, you'd better leave now. Don't give me false hope."

  Mateo stood. Looked down at her. "I'm not lying. Not this time, at least."

  He turned and walked away from the bench. After a few steps, he stopped and glanced back.

  "Camila Flores. Where from?"

  Camila named a village on the outskirts of Caraccass. A familiar name—one of the slum areas included in The Bridge Project's data. Mateo nodded, then left.

  Behind him, Camila sat alone on the bench, staring at his retreating back, not knowing what to feel.

  ***

  That Afternoon, Inside the Family Car

  Sofia Guerrero sat in the front seat beside the driver. Isabella occupied the left rear seat, Mateo the right. The car moved slowly away from the multipurpose building, passing through city streets that were beginning to fill with afternoon activity.

  "The event was a success," Sofia said, satisfaction coloring her voice. "Donations nearly doubled the target. Lots of businessmen suddenly became generous."

  "Maybe because Mateo was there," Isabella teased, nudging his arm. "Quite a few mothers were smitten seeing the president's son show up."

  Mateo didn't respond. His eyes gazed out the window, but he wasn't really seeing anything.

  Sofia turned to look back. "Mateo, dear, you're very quiet. Didn't you enjoy the event?"

  "It wasn't bad," he answered shortly.

  Isabella studied him. Her older sister's eyes—usually capable of reading anything—regarded him with a different kind of curiosity this time.

  "Where did you go earlier? I looked for you but couldn't find you."

  "Walked around, looked at the booths."

  "Which booths?"

  Mateo didn't answer.

  Isabella waited. Then, softly, "Mateo. What's wrong?"

  He exhaled. For a moment, he wanted to stay silent. No need to share. But something—perhaps because today was strange, perhaps because Camila still floated in his mind—made him speak.

  "Met a girl. On a park bench."

  Isabella raised an eyebrow. "A girl?"

  "Crying. Told me her little sister died. Two weeks ago." His voice was flat, like reporting facts. "She was taking her sister to the hospital, but she was one day too late. Now she feels guilty."

  His mother—Sofia, up front—remained silent. Didn't interfere. But her ears were clearly listening.

  "That's sad," Isabella said softly. "How old?"

  "About my age, maybe."

  "You talked to her?"

  "Yeah. Asked her name."

  Isabella looked at him. "And then?"

  Mateo paused. Outside the window, a pushcart passed by, guided by an elderly woman with a stooped back. He thought of Camila's mother.

  "I said I'd send someone. Help them."

  Isabella's eyes widened. Sofia, up front, turned quickly.

  "You said what?" Isabella asked.

  "Send someone. From the foundation or from The Bridge Project. Depends." Mateo looked at her. "They need help. It... it felt... right."

  Sofia and Isabella exchanged glances.

  "You," Sofia said slowly, "just decided to help a poor family, without being asked, without political reasons, without—"

  "Yeah." Mateo cut her off.

  The car moved forward in silence for a few seconds.

  Then Isabella laughed. Not a mocking laugh—a warm one, like someone who'd just found something they'd been searching for a long time.

  "My beloved little brother, Mateo Guerrero," she said, "today you're strange."

  "I know."

  "Really strange."

  "I know."

  Sofia smiled from the front. "Maybe this is what they call... normal."

  Mateo looked at his mother in the rearview mirror. "Normal? Have I not been normal, Mother?"

  "Hmm, normal people see someone suffering and want to help. Without calculating, without weighing pros and cons." Sofia smiled gently. "That's normal, dear. You've just experienced it for the first time."

  Mateo didn't answer. But in his chest, that strange feeling emerged again. Not like in the garden, not like when he'd seen the hospital blueprints. This time it felt... lighter.

  He remembered Camila's face. Her red eyes, still capable of seeing. The way she'd looked at him when he said he'd send someone. A mixture of disbelief and hope she didn't dare acknowledge.

  The car continued onward. Outside, city lights began flickering on one by one. Afternoon melted into dusk.

  Isabella leaned her head back, studying Mateo from the side. "You know," she said, "all this time I've always thought of you as... a machine. But today..."

  "Today what?"

  "Today you reminded me that beneath all those layers, there's still that little Mateo who used to feed stray cats behind our old house."

  Mateo frowned. "I don't remember that."

  "You were five. The cat was calico. You used to sneak milk from the kitchen even though Mother said not to." Isabella smiled. "When you got caught, you just said, 'She was hungry.' That wasn't so bad."

  Mateo said nothing. Didn't remember. But the image—a five-year-old with a calico cat—flickered vaguely in his mind.

  "She was hungry," Isabella repeated. "Just like today. 'They need help.' Without overthinking."

  The car turned, entering the gates of the Sun Palace. The palace lights began to appear in the distance.

  "So," Sofia said from the front, "you're serious about helping that girl?"

  Mateo nodded. "Tomorrow I'll find out her address. Send someone there."

  "You know her name?"

  "Camila Flores. From a village on the eastern outskirts. I forgot the village name, but it can be found."

  Sofia smiled in the rearview mirror. "You even forgot the village name, but you still want to help."

  "Yeah."

  The car stopped at the entrance. Bodyguards opened the doors. Sofia got out first, followed by Isabella.

  Mateo remained seated for a moment, gazing out the window. In the garden, pathway lights were turning on, illuminating the walking paths and fountain. The same place where he'd sat with Isabella a few days ago, discussing the hospital.

  Today was strange...

  He got out and walked into the palace. In the hallway, Eleanor came running, hugging his legs.

  "Big Brother! Big Brother! I got cookies from Mother's event!" She waved a small package triumphantly.

  Mateo ruffled her hair. "Good. Eat them later."

  "Let's eat together!"

  "Later, okay? I needs to work first."

  Eleanor pouted but released her grip. She ran back toward the family room, where Rosa's voice could be heard calling her.

  Mateo walked to his room. Past the long corridor, past the living room, past the stairs. In front of his door, he stopped.

  Camila Flores. He knew nothing about that girl. Didn't know if she'd believe the help that came. Didn't know if she'd refuse out of pride. But he'd promised. And Mateo Guerrero didn't like breaking promises.

  He entered and sat at his desk. On the desktop, the piles of documents still waited. Gunpowder factory reports. Financial reports. Intelligence reports from Prussia. New project plans. All still there, all still needing to be read, all still needing to be processed.

  But for the first time, he didn't reach for them immediately. He sat in his chair, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts weren't on production figures or war strategies. They were on a girl's voice saying, "She was only six."

  Six years old. The same age as Eleanor when he'd first seen her in this garden three years ago, with fearful eyes and a nervous smile. If Eleanor got sick, and he was too late—He didn't finish that sentence. Didn't need to.

  Tomorrow, he'd send someone to that village. Find Camila Flores. Ask what she needed. And make sure she and her family never again had to choose between eating today or seeking treatment tomorrow.

  "What a tiring day..." he murmured softly.

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