The dream came...

  Mateo stood in the middle of a meadow he had never visited. Grass swayed at waist height, caressed by warm winds, and in the distance, mountains faded to blue beneath a thin veil of mist. The sky burned orange-gold, caught in an eternal twilight.

  He wasn't alone. A woman stood a few meters ahead. Long black hair cascaded freely down her back, and a simple white dress rippled gently in the breeze.

  Her face—beautiful, yet unfamiliar. She resembled no one he had ever encountered. And her eyes... her eyes were empty. Not the emptiness of ignorance, but the emptiness of a lake whose depths could never be fathomed.

  "Mateo." Her voice was soft. Too soft. The kind of voice that comes in dreams—the ones you know aren't real even as they unfold.

  "I want to end everything."

  She stepped closer. The wind picked up, whipping the grass into a frenzy.

  "I can't continue like this. Being with you, enduring your coldness."

  Mateo tried to speak. Tried to ask who she was. But his mouth remained locked, his body frozen.

  "I'm tired."

  She reached out—pale fingers, almost translucent—and touched his chest. Cold. Icy cold.

  "I'm leaving."

  She stepped back. One step. Two. Three.

  "Wait—"

  Mateo woke with a gasp, lungs burning for air.

  His bedroom lay shrouded in darkness. Only moonlight slipped through the curtains, painting silver stripes across the floor. His heart hammered against his ribs. His hand pressed to his chest—still warm, still normal.

  A dream. Just a dream.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. That woman. Her face, those empty eyes, her words.

  "I want to end everything."

  He exhaled slowly, scrubbing his face with both hands. Strange, nonsensical dream. He didn't even have... what was the word... relationships with any woman. There was no time for such things.

  Stupid dream.

  Outside, the sky began its slow transition from black to deep blue. Dawn approached. And today—today was monumental.

  He rose, moving to the window. Caraccass stirred to life below. Electric lights flickered on throughout the city. In the distance, the port buzzed with activity.

  Today, those ships would arrive.

  Today, 150,000 soldiers—or what remained of them—would set foot on home soil.

  Mateo flexed his fingers, feeling the stiffness in his joints. Insufficient sleep, as always.

  He opened his wardrobe and retrieved a black uniform—not official military attire, but ceremonial dress designed specifically for state functions. His mother had chosen it. "You must appear as a leader's son, not a bureaucrat," she'd said.

  He dressed slowly, methodically, without needing a mirror. In his vest pocket, Isabella's silver pocket watch—a birthday gift—ticked softly.

  The woman from his dream flickered through his mind again. Briefly. He dismissed her.

  Stupid dream. No time for such nonsense.

  ***

  Plaza de la República, 8:00 AM.

  The sun had climbed, though its heat hadn't yet peaked. The sky stretched clear and blue, dotted with a few white clouds—perfect weather for a ceremony.

  The plaza had been packed since dawn.

  Unlike three months ago, when the Guerrero family had stood alone on the podium, today thousands upon thousands filled every corner of the square. Mothers cradled infants in their arms. Fathers hoisted children onto their shoulders. Grandparents stood ramrod straight despite aching joints. Even the street vendors—usually too busy hawking their wares—now stood motionless, abandoning their goods.

  They had come for one reason: to welcome their children home.

  Mateo stood beside his father behind the podium, in the family's designated area. From here, he could survey the entire plaza. Thousands of faces. Thousands of eyes fixed on the distant sea.

  "Father, are you nervous?" he asked quietly.

  Ricardo Guerrero didn't answer. But Mateo noticed his hands—usually so steady—trembling slightly behind his back.

  Beside them, his mother Sofía gripped Eleanor's hand tightly. Eleanor stared at the crowd with wide, wondering eyes. Isabella stood slightly behind, silent, her expression composed.

  "Look," Isabella whispered suddenly, pointing toward the plaza's entrance.

  The crowd began to stir. A low rumble—soft at first, then swelling—rippled from back to front.

  The ships had docked. The soldiers were disembarking.

  9:00 AM. Plaza Entrance.

  They came in ragged, uneven lines.

  This was no military parade with crisp steps and immaculate uniforms. This was a procession of human beings moving as best they could. Some limped, supported by comrades. Others bore empty sleeves, their wounds wrapped in filthy bandages. Some—many—stared with hollow eyes, gazing straight ahead without truly seeing.

  Their uniforms hung in tatters, caked with dried mud, torn and threadbare. Yet pinned to each chest was something small—a cloth emblem bearing the Venez Republic's insignia, distributed before disembarkation. "So they know you're heroes," the distributing officer had said. But no one felt like a hero.

  A young soldier—barely twenty—stopped mid-stride. His eyes searched the crowd desperately. Then, from among thousands, a middle-aged woman screamed, "PEDRO!"

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  The soldier ran—stumbling, nearly falling, but running—toward that voice. Mother and son collided in the middle of the plaza. The woman crushed him in her embrace, sobbing uncontrollably, beating her son's chest while crying, "You're home! You're home!"

  No one protested. No one demanded they form an orderly queue. This was the people's plaza. This was their day.

  Elsewhere, a young girl sprinted toward a soldier—perhaps her husband. They stopped a meter apart, drinking in the sight of each other. Then she launched herself at him, arms wrapping around his neck, tears soaking his shoulder. That soldier—hard-faced, bearded, scarred—held her back with trembling hands. Tears streamed down his weathered cheeks, disappearing into his beard.

  In another corner, a soldier dropped to his knees, kissing the plaza's asphalt again and again. His hands stroked the granite stones as if in disbelief. His comrades tried to pull him up, but he remained kneeling, kissing the ground, lips moving in what might have been prayer.

  An elderly grandfather, leaning on crutches, approached a soldier standing alone. They embraced for a long moment—grandfather and grandson—without a single word. On the soldier's back hung a shabby backpack containing everything left from three months in hell.

  Mateo watched all this from behind the podium. His hands—usually steady, usually writing, usually commanding—clenched at his sides.

  Behind him, Eleanor began to cry—not hysterically, but softly, choked sobs. Isabella held her close, but her eyes remained open. Seeing everything.

  ***

  10:00 AM. The Official Ceremony Begins.

  The soldiers had gathered before the podium. Not in neat formation—they were beyond neatness now. But they were there. The living. The walking. The survivors.

  Behind them stood their families. Mothers, fathers, wives, children, siblings. Thousands upon thousands, tens of thousands of eyes.

  Ricardo Guerrero ascended the podium. No script. Through the new sound system installed just yesterday, his voice would carry to the plaza's farthest reaches.

  He stood there for several heartbeats. Simply standing. Gazing at the soldiers before him. Then—he bowed.

  The President bowed deeply before his troops. Not a diplomatic bow, but a genuine one—back bent, head lowered, held for five full seconds.

  The plaza fell utterly silent.

  When he straightened, his eyes glistened. Not the fake tears from speeches past. Real tears.

  "My children."

  His voice cracked on the first word. He paused, swallowed hard, tried again.

  "My children... welcome home."

  A soldier in the front rank—perhaps unintentionally, perhaps not—sobbed.

  "Three months ago, I stood here and promised that ships would come for you. I promised you would return home." Ricardo paused. His hands—trembling behind his back earlier—now gripped the podium's edge with white-knuckled intensity. "That promise... I couldn't fully keep."

  He bowed his head again. Longer this time.

  "Some didn't return. Some names now exist only in memories, in photographs, in the ceaseless prayers of mothers. To them—to every soldier who fell on foreign soil—I apologize. Forgive me for failing to protect them. Forgive me for sending them to places I myself fear to imagine."

  Silence gripped the plaza. Women wept quietly.

  "But to you standing here today—you who survived, you who returned, you who carry wounds both visible and invisible—I lack sufficient words." Ricardo raised his hand, pointing toward them. "You are proof that this nation possesses courage. You are proof that Venez soldiers yield to none in this world!"

  Cheers erupted. Not joyous cheers, but hoarse, rasping shouts—the sound of people who had just finished crying and now struggled to voice their pride.

  "You left as innocent young men and women. You return as—" he paused, searching for the right word, "—as human beings who have witnessed too much. For that, this nation owes you a debt. Not with speeches. Not with medals. But with concrete action."

  He gestured toward distant buildings. "New hospitals are under construction. To heal your wounds—visible and invisible. New schools have opened—free for your children. Employment—dignified employment—is being prepared. You won't be abandoned. You won't be forgotten. That is my promise! This nation's promise!"

  He stopped, drawing a deep breath. Then his voice dropped—not weaker, but more intimate, more personal.

  "I cannot imagine what you experienced out there. I cannot. But I can promise one thing: whenever you feel alone, whenever you wake in the night and see faces you couldn't save—remember that here, in this homeland, millions await you. Millions who will listen to your stories. Millions who will help you rise."

  He raised his right hand—not a military salute, but a simple gesture. Like a father waving to his child.

  "Welcome home, my children. Welcome home!"

  The plaza erupted.

  Not in cheers, but in tears. Thousands of individual sobs merging into a single sound—a symphony of relief, sorrow, and gratitude. The soldiers before the podium fell to their knees, weeping on each other's shoulders. Families surged forward, breaking through any pretense of formation, embracing their returned children.

  No one cared about protocol. No one cared about order. Only embraces mattered. Only tears. Only the phrase "Thank God you're home," repeated thousands of times.

  Mateo, from behind the podium, witnessed everything. His hands remained clenched. His chest—something in his chest—felt strange. Not painful. Not constricted. But something... something he couldn't explain.

  Beside him, Isabella gripped his arm. He turned. Her eyes were red, wet, but she smiled.

  "This is what we fought for, Mateo."

  Mateo didn't answer. Only nodded.

  Before him, a human sea undulated with embraces and tears. A human sea composed of mothers and sons, husbands and wives, fathers and children—who three months ago had parted in this same plaza with anxious tears, and now reunited with tears of gratitude.

  Not everyone could reunite. Empty chairs waited in homes across Venez. Photographs now existed only on walls. But today—for this moment—the survivors could weep with relief.

  ***

  Late Afternoon. Sun Palace Gardens.

  The ceremony had concluded. The crowds dispersed. Soldiers had returned to their homes—to family embraces, to warm beds, to meals cooked by their mothers.

  Mateo stood in the rear garden, watching the fountain's endless flow. He had changed clothes—trading ceremonial uniform for a simple white shirt and dark trousers. But his mind remained in the plaza. Fixed on those faces, on those tears.

  "Mateo."

  Isabella appeared beside him. She had also changed—a simple light green dress, hair tied in a ponytail. Her face remained slightly flushed, tear-swollen.

  "Are you alright?"

  Mateo nodded. "Just thinking."

  "About what?"

  He didn't answer. About the dream. About the woman with empty eyes. About what "ending everything" might mean. About the coldness she'd accused him of. But that was too absurd to share.

  "Father was magnificent today," he said finally. "His speech."

  Isabella smiled faintly. "Father is magnificent when touching people's hearts. It's his gift."

  "You disagree?"

  "I didn't say that." Isabella walked over and sat on the fountain's edge. "I only said it's his gift. Our father's gift. You have different gifts."

  Mateo sat beside her. "What gifts?"

  "Planning, calculating, ensuring everything runs smoothly." Isabella studied him. "Without your gift, no ships would have arrived on time. No agreement with Prussi would have enabled their return. Father can deliver the most beautiful speech imaginable, but if no one returns, that speech becomes mere wind."

  Mateo remained silent.

  "Oh, yes." Isabella suddenly remembered something. "In three days, Mother's charitable foundation is hosting a fundraiser for the children's hospital." She looked at Mateo. "Will you come?"

  Mateo frowned. "A charity event? With wealthy donors pretending to be saints while showing off their jewelry? You seem accustomed to it now."

  Isabella laughed softly. "Yes, exactly that. But Mother asked me to attend, and I'm asking you. So I don't have to face their empty chatter alone. And I've never grown accustomed to it, don't misunderstand..."

  Mateo considered his schedule. Reports from Prussi still needed analysis. Munitions factory data required evaluation. Three days from now—

  "Fine," he said.

  Isabella raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You usually have a thousand excuses to avoid events like this."

  "Not this time." Mateo stood, gazing at the fountain. "Perhaps I need to... see the outside world. Not just through reports."

  Isabella studied him for a long moment. Then she smiled—a warm smile.

  "Good. We'll leave at seven in the morning. Don't dress too formally—Mother says it's a casual event."

  "When did Mother say that?"

  "Never. But I know you'll show up in your usual stiff black suit, and everyone will feel tense! So I'm warning you now."

  Mateo almost smiled.

  "Fine. I'll... try."

  Isabella stood, smoothing her skirt. "I need to go. Mother wants help with preparations." She turned, then paused. "Mateo."

  "Yes?"

  "Today... I'm proud of you. Maybe you didn't do anything in the plaza except stand there, but everything that happened—their return, those ships arriving—that happened because of your hard work."

  Mateo didn't respond.

  Isabella left, abandoning him to the garden's solitude.

  The sun began its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The fountain flowed endlessly, indifferent to war or peace, to tears or laughter.

  Mateo sat back down near the fountain. He thought about last night's dream. That woman. Her words. The coldness she'd accused him of.

  Stupid dream.

  But in his chest, something still felt strange. Something he couldn't explain. Something that might—just might—be what normal people called "feeling."

  He shook his head and stood. No time for such nonsense.

  Three days from now. A charity event. Isabella would collect him.

  He walked back toward the palace, steps as measured as always.

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