The steady hum of the engines filled the cabin, a low vibration that seemed to settle into the bones of everyone aboard. It was constant, rhythmic, almost meditative—the kind of sound that made thoughts wander and dreams take shape. Outside the windows, the sky stretched endlessly, pale blue and faintly streaked with clouds. The silver wings of the Caravelle gleamed as they cut through the air, carrying the passengers away from the tidy order of Switzerland toward the warmth of Spain.
Stefan sat nestled between his parents, small yet wide-eyed with curiosity. To anyone else, he was a child marveling at the novelty of flight. To himself, he was Johannes reborn—an old soul studying every detail of an era he had only read about in books, an era now alive around him.
The cabin carried its own atmosphere. The seats, upholstered in patterned fabric with muted tones, bore small built-in ashtrays, a reminder of a time when smoking in flight was not only permitted but expected. The faint scent of tobacco drifted in lazy trails, mingling with the aroma of coffee and pastries being served. Flight attendants moved gracefully through the aisle in uniforms pressed to perfection, their hats tilted neatly, their smiles polished and polite. They carried trays with glasses, small bottles, and baskets of warm bread rolls, their movements practiced, their tone always reassuring.
For most passengers, this was just another flight—routine, necessary, a means to an end. But to Stefan, the entire scene shimmered with a nostalgic glow.
Across the aisle, three businessmen buried their noses in crisp newspapers, the thin pages rustling softly as they flipped from one headline to the next. The bold letters shouted of trade negotiations, subtle shifts in international alliances, and cautious reports on Spain's economic position. Their brows furrowed, their lips pressed thin, as though each article contained secrets only they could interpret.
Two rows ahead, an elderly couple dozed peacefully, their hats tilted forward, chins resting lightly against their chests. The woman's pearls gleamed faintly under the cabin lights, while the man clutched a leather case protectively even in his sleep. Nearby, a young mother gently rocked her restless child, whispering lullabies in a soft French accent that wove around the hum of the engines.
Stefan absorbed it all. The jar of wrapped pastries carried carefully down the aisle. The conductor-like rhythm of murmured conversations. The subtle rocking of the fuselage as the plane adjusted to air currents. To him, it was human in the truest sense: imperfect, fragile, yet strangely comforting.
Modern flights were nothing like this, Johannes reflected inwardly. Cold, sterile, glowing with screens. Passengers sealed behind locked doors, security lines stripping away humanity. Efficient, yes—but warmth was lost. This… this feels alive. Almost ceremonial.
Nearby, Jean Morel sat composed, his suit immaculate, a pen tapping gently against a slim folder. Every gesture seemed deliberate, every glance calculated. He leaned closer to Fabio, speaking in a tone both measured and sincere.
"Mr. De Angelis," he began, his French accent lending precision to each word, "Spain still stands under General Franco's rule. The European Commission, however, has been watching closely. Agriculture, trade, tourism—these are areas where cooperation might one day be fruitful. For now, nothing is official, but your presence will allow us to grasp opportunities as they emerge."
Fabio listened intently, his brow creased in concentration. He nodded slowly, absorbing not just the words but the weight behind them. Spain's political situation was complicated—frozen between dictatorship and the stirrings of change. By 1975, the outcome was uncertain, but hope flickered beneath the surface.
Jean's voice dropped lower, as though aware that even the hum of the engines might betray his words."It is subtle work, wrapped in quiet language. But subtlety, Mr. De Angelis, is often more decisive than force."
Stefan watched them from his seat, his gaze sharp, too sharp for a child his age. His wide eyes seemed to reflect every nuance, every pause. Jean noticed and, with a faint smile, turned to Lena.
"Your child watches as if he understands everything," he remarked softly.
Lena laughed gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from Stefan's forehead."Stefan has always been… observant. Too observant, perhaps."
Fabio chuckled in agreement, though his laugh carried hesitation."Children mimic more than they truly comprehend. Still… he is remarkable."
Jean inclined his head politely, closing the folder in his lap as if to signal the end of that line of thought.
Silence fell for a moment, broken only by the soft clinking of glasses as a stewardess distributed drinks. Stefan let his eyelids grow heavy, feigning the drowsiness of a child. Behind the curtain of his lashes, however, he listened intently.
Jean's voice lowered once more."Mr. De Angelis, take care. The diplomatic environment in Spain is fragile. ETA continues its violent campaign, and tensions with Morocco over Western Sahara simmer dangerously. Your work may be quieter than what you are used to in Switzerland—but it must be firm. A single misstep can echo loudly in such times."
Fabio met his gaze steadily, the tension of responsibility clear in his features. He glanced at his wife and son, sleeping peacefully beside him, and the weight of his role pressed more heavily on his shoulders. This was no longer just a professional duty. It was history in motion—and his family would live within it.
Minutes stretched into quiet eternity. Drinks were sipped. Pastries, sweet and flaky, were passed from tray to tray. A stewardess laughed politely at a joke from one of the businessmen. The elderly man coughed discreetly into a handkerchief, his wife adjusting his scarf. A faint shadow of children playing peekaboo down the aisle brought momentary lightness to the cabin.
Then the captain's voice filled the air, calm and authoritative, first in French, then in English."Ladies and gentlemen, we will begin our descent into Madrid–Barajas momentarily. Please fasten your seatbelts and return your seatbacks to their upright position."
The mood shifted instantly. Newspapers were folded and tucked away. Mothers adjusted blankets around their children. The young businessmen scribbled a few final notes in their agendas. The hum of conversation dropped into a focused hush, replaced by the clicks of seatbelts fastening into place.
Lena blinked awake, momentarily disoriented by the change in pressure, then smiled softly as Stefan stirred against her shoulder. His eyes fluttered open, seeking hers, and she pressed a tender kiss to his temple. Fabio leaned across to adjust the blanket over them both, his movements protective, grounding.
Jean, as composed as ever, slid his notes back into the folder, every page aligned perfectly. He sat tall, unshaken by turbulence, his gaze fixed forward as though he were already stepping into the negotiations ahead.
Outside, the clouds parted slowly, revealing the Spanish countryside. The golden afternoon light bathed fields of olive trees and vineyards. Small villages dotted the landscape, their terracotta rooftops glowing warmly. In the distance, Madrid spread across the horizon—sprawling, alive, ancient yet restless.
Stefan gazed out the window, his eyes hazy with half-sleep. A dreamy smile tugged at his lips. He did not yet grasp the full depth of what awaited, but he could feel it—the sense of possibility, the faint flutter of destiny stirring.
As the wheels of the Caravelle kissed the runway, a soft jolt ran through the cabin. Some passengers sighed with relief, others applauded briefly, a habit not yet abandoned. Stefan's small hands curled tighter around the blanket as the realization washed over him.
This is it. A new stage. A new field of play. The pieces are moving already, even if no one else sees the board.
The engines roared as the plane slowed, and in that moment, Stefan—Johannes—knew that history itself had just tilted slightly, imperceptibly, toward him.