The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the La Moraleja estate, its golden light spilling across polished wood floors and embroidered curtains. The dining room smelled faintly of toasted bread and bitter coffee, mingling with the garden breeze that carried notes of jasmine and freshly cut grass.
Stefan sat at the long oak table, nibbling quietly on his buttered bread. His small legs swung beneath the chair, but his eyes—sharp, deliberate—moved constantly. He scanned his surroundings not like a child but like a tactician, cataloging expressions and gestures as if they were pieces on a chessboard.
His mother, Lena, conversed softly with Anna, his Swiss grandmother, about the season's garden plan—where to place the carnations, whether the roses would bloom early this year. Fabio, at the far end of the table, lowered his newspaper slowly, his brow furrowed deeper with each column. The headlines whispered of economic anxieties, strikes, and political instability in corners of Europe.
Near the window, Jean Morel had taken up his usual post. The Frenchman's presence had shifted from temporary guest to something closer to a household fixture. His jackets were always perfectly pressed, his briefcase never far from reach, and his eyes carried a vigilance Stefan had come to respect. Even as Jean reviewed documents, he glanced frequently toward Fabio, as though waiting for the right moment to share news.
Stefan chewed silently, but his thoughts ran fast. Even breakfast is a stage. Every silence, every word, has weight.
Without waiting for dismissal, Stefan slipped down from his chair and dashed through the tall glass doors into the garden. The sunlight was warmer there, glinting off the fountain's steady streams. Several children had gathered, their laughter filling the air. They were the sons and daughters of diplomats, businessmen, and allies—children who played tag and hide-and-seek, yet whose surnames would someday sign treaties or control industries.
They began with simple games—races across the grass, castles built of sticks and leaves. Yet Stefan couldn't help but see more. Each giggle, each complaint, each triumph was a thread in the fabric of future alliances.
"Let's build two fortresses," he suggested, his tone calm but assertive. "One here by the elm tree, and another near the fountain. Then we can try to capture each other's base."
At first, the children exchanged puzzled looks. His words were too polished for a boy of five. But curiosity outweighed hesitation. Soon enough, they divided into teams, running to gather stones, twigs, and cushions from the patio.
"Stefan always has new ideas," one whispered.
"Better than the same old games," another agreed.
Before long, Stefan stood at the center, arbitrating disputes, assigning "scouts," and ensuring rules were followed. He was not the loudest voice, nor the strongest. But every child gravitated toward his calm certainty.
On the terrace, Vittorio De Angelis leaned back in his chair, cigarette balanced between his fingers. His eyes narrowed, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he exhaled smoke into the warm air.
"That boy," he murmured, "has the soul of an orator. He doesn't demand, yet they obey."
Beside him, Heinrich adjusted his glasses, his tone quieter but heavy with meaning. "It is discipline. And discipline at that age… is rare. Dangerous, even. People expect much from those who carry it."
Fabio, passing behind them with his coffee cup, caught fragments of the exchange. He stopped, his gaze shifting to the children in the garden. Pride swelled in him, but so too did a subtle weight. Turning this gift into a childhood… is that even possible? Or is destiny already pulling him forward?
At lunch, the adults gathered around the long dining table, porcelain dishes gleaming under the chandelier. The meal unfolded with careful politeness. Stefan, seated among the children at a smaller table nearby, divided his attention between his soup and the flow of conversation at the adults' table.
Words like "European Economic Community" drifted through the air. Fabio muttered about instability in Brussels. Jean, measured as always, spoke of unrest in North Africa. The tones were hushed, as if secrecy could soften the gravity of their concerns.
Stefan didn't understand every nuance, but he understood enough. The world is shifting. Faster than they admit.
He caught himself clenching his small fist under the table. Someday, I will not just listen to these words. I will shape them.
After lunch, the children returned to the garden, their stomachs full and spirits renewed. This time, the group gathered beneath the shade of the elm tree.
"What should we play now?" one girl asked, twirling a daisy in her fingers.
"We should vote," Stefan suggested, raising his small hand. "Everyone gets a voice. That way, no one feels left out."
The idea intrigued them. They lined up, laughing, raising their hands as Stefan tallied the votes. Some wanted another fortress battle, others preferred tag. Stefan carefully announced the outcome, making sure every voice had been acknowledged.
From the terrace, Carmen chuckled, her Italian lilt rich with amusement. "Even democracy! Our little one invents it."
The adults laughed, but there was something deeper beneath their mirth—admiration, perhaps even unease.
As dusk settled, the guests departed one by one. Stefan stood at the garden gate, watching the headlights of their cars vanish down the road. His chest felt strangely calm, as though each farewell was not an ending but the start of something larger.
Back in his room, he lit the small lamp on his desk. Anna had given him a notebook, and it had become his secret treasure. He opened it carefully, revealing crude sketches of maps—Europe divided by borders, with stars and flags scrawled in pencil.
At the bottom of one page, he had written a single word in neat, deliberate letters: Union.
He traced it with his fingertip, then began jotting new notes about the day: alliances formed in play, disputes resolved, laughter shared. He underlined one sentence twice: They followed not because I ordered, but because they wanted to.
He sat back, the pencil trembling slightly in his hand. "True leadership," he whispered, "is when others choose to follow you. If I understand that now, at five… what might I build when I'm older?"
A faint smile crossed his lips—part child, part strategist.
The night deepened. From the hallway, Stefan heard muffled voices, firm but urgent. His father's tone, Jean's careful cadence, and another voice—unfamiliar, sharp with tension. A knock had echoed earlier on Fabio's study door, and since then, whispers carried through the corridor like the distant rumble of a coming storm.
Stefan closed his notebook gently, sliding it beneath his pillow. The game is over. The real world calls again.
He climbed into bed, the blankets pulled up to his chin. Through the window, the garden stretched into darkness, broken only by the moving silhouettes of guards patrolling the estate.
"Everything has its time," he murmured to the silence.
His eyelids grew heavy, but the word he had written earlier—Union—burned bright in his thoughts. He imagined it glowing like a banner unfurling across Europe, carried not by swords or cannons but by will, by vision, by the unyielding belief that many could act as one.
The boy drifted into sleep. Yet in that fragile silence, one truth reverberated through the night, echoing like a prophecy:
The games of today were the rehearsals of tomorrow.
And tomorrow would not wait forever.