One morning on September 10th, in the year 4780.
The corridors of St. Isaak Central Hospital were filled with an unusual murmur. At 6:14 a.m., Karen had been admitted in an emergency: she was in labor.
According to witnesses, it was Fausto who carried her in his arms, his face pale and his lips tight, across the palace garden to the official carriage. There was no time for escorts or protocols. The coachman barely had time to pull on his gloves when Fausto climbed in, shouting orders to head to the hospital at full speed.
Though the onset of labor took some by surprise, the doctors had been on alert for weeks. The health of Karen, President of the Seven Republics, was a matter of state. Her pregnancy, closely monitored by specialists and ministers, was both a hope and a symbol. The doctors in the presidential wing had an exclusive suite ready, equipped with everything necessary to attend to any emergency.
Inside the hospital, Fausto paced like a caged lion. From one end of the hallway to the other, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the floor. He stopped only to listen to the doctors behind the door, barely understanding technical whispers that were alien to him. His parents arrived soon after, along with his siblings. They tried to calm him with soft words, kind gestures, but everyone knew nothing would soothe him until he heard the cry of his son... or daughter.
What no one expected was the presence of public figures like Rivas Hidalgo and Erick Victorino, old allies and political rivals, who appeared unannounced at the entrance, their faces somber but firm. Their mere presence was enough to send the press, already crowding outside, into a frenzy.
The surrounding streets collapsed in less than an hour. Ordinary citizens, the curious, and supporters of the President began to spontaneously gather in front of the hospital. Radios were quick to pick up the news: "President Karen's health status: admitted as an emergency for labor," a nervous voice announced over the waves. Communication networks exploded. In a matter of minutes, the news was trending on every known broadcast channel.
The anticipation wasn't just for the arrival of a child. It was the arrival of an heir, a figure who, for many, represented the future of a new political cycle, or so it began to be rumored after the incident with the military. The legacy of a woman who, despite her enemies, had managed to unite irreconcilable factions during her first two years in office.
Inside, the clock struck 7:03 a.m. Fausto halted his pacing. A sharp scream was heard, followed by a thick silence. Then, the cry of a newborn cut through the ward doors.
Fausto did not move. He closed his eyes. For an instant, the world seemed to stop.
The wait spanned agonizing hours. Outside the room, Fausto could not find calm, walking in circles while they attended to his wife and their child... though he didn't even know yet if it was a boy or a girl.
After a time that felt eternal, a nurse came out to find him. With a tired smile, she assured him that everything was under control.
"It's safe, you can go in," she said. "Congratulations, sir."
Before he could react, Victorino and his father approached him almost simultaneously, placing their hands on his shoulders. The curious thing was that the two men had never met in person: the biological father and the political father, united in the same gesture.
Fausto, his legs trembling, followed the nurse like a child expecting punishment.
"How is she?" he asked, his voice cracking.
"She is healthy and out of danger," the nurse replied. "And you... you have a beautiful girl."
"A girl?"
"That's right, sir."
Fausto could barely articulate another word. He walked to the room where Karen was resting. Opening the door, he found her sitting up in bed, her hair dishevelled, holding a small bundle wrapped in blankets. His baby.
He approached slowly, as if afraid to break the scene. Karen lifted her gaze, somewhat lost with exhaustion, and reached out a hand to stroke her husband's face.
"Isn't she lovely?" she whispered.
Fausto's eyes were reddened, on the verge of overflowing.
"Up all night again?" she joked tenderly.
He shook his head gently.
"No... I'm crying."
Karen smiled sweetly and, with care, handed him their daughter. Fausto received her as if holding a fragile treasure. He observed every detail of her tiny face and, with a tremor in his lips, kissed her forehead.
"Welcome to the world."
He spent an entire hour beside them, but the nurse returned: Karen needed rest, and the baby still had tests to undergo. Fausto then left the room, after his family congratulated and said their goodbyes. Victorino was the last to give him a pat on the back before retiring for a smoke.
Finally, Fausto was almost alone in front of the newborn nursery window. There, motionless, he looked at his daughter among the other babies.
It was then that his father approached. An older, bald man with an imposing mustache. Despite his age, he maintained the posture of someone strong, robust, taller than his son. In another time, he had worked carrying bricks for the walls, bricks so enormous it took six men to lift them. He could do it with two... even four alone, a feat over sixty witnesses swore they had seen.
He stood beside him and placed a heavy, warm hand on his shoulder.
"Congratulations, runt," he said with an affection he hadn't shown in a long time. "Now, you truly are a grown man."
"Thank you, Dad."
Both contemplated the little one through the glass in silence.
His father spoke first.
"You know, Fausto? When I was born, it wasn't in a hospital. It was in a makeshift room, with a trembling nurse and a couple of soldiers guarding the door. My brothers and I saw the light there... and my mother died shortly after. Her screams attracted the monsters."
Fausto looked at him, surprised: it was the first time his father had told him something so personal.
"I remember," the man continued in a grave voice, "that with the last strength she had left, she told your grandfather: 'Take care of Pablo.' She threw me into his arms before those beasts tore her apart—that’s what he told me. I always thought it was my fault, but it wasn't. It was the world I lived in."
"Dad..." Fausto tried to interrupt, moved.
His father raised a hand for him to be silent.
"Then we grew up and, as soon as I was old enough, my father put me to work on the walls. That's where I met your mother, a tough soldier with an impossible character. I won't lie, the first impression wasn't good, but your grandfather adored her."
Fausto smiled slightly, with nostalgia.
"I wish he were here to see this."
"Believe me, he would be proud. He was proud when he saw you become the leader of the seven nations. He died two years later... in a clean hospital, without fear of being devoured by creatures, attended to by doctors. He died in peace."
Fausto lowered his head.
"I want to believe that. Maybe I could have done more for him."
His father embraced him by the shoulders and pulled him close.
"Son, I was born in a dangerous room, without medicine, without anesthesia, with a higher probability of dying than living. You were born at home, with good doctors... but without security, exposed to infections, without guarantees. And your daughter... your daughter was born in a hospital built by you, with staff trained thanks to you, with resources invested by you. She came into the world in a safe, decent place, and that is thanks to what you did."
Fausto listened, his lips tight, feeling the weight of those words.
"Do you know how my grandfather died?" the man asked.
"No..."
"Bleeding out in a tent. They amputated a leg bitten by an infected, and there was no one to save him. I saw my father destroyed. And then my grandmother, who died waiting for help that never came. Do you understand?"
His father gestured toward the newborn nursery.
"Look at your daughter. Look closely at her. That girl will not know that horror. She will be able to live, grow, and laugh in a world that you helped rebuild. You may not see it, son, but what you achieved changed the destiny of all of us, and not just us, but those who will come."
Fausto did not answer immediately. With his eyes fixed on his little one, tears finally rolled down his cheeks.
His father gave him a firm pat on the back.
"Never forget what you have done, Fausto. That is your true legacy."
Father and son remained in silence for a few more seconds, their gaze fixed on the glass pane that separated them from the girl. The newborn’s small movements seemed to hypnotize Fausto, while his father took a deep breath, as if gathering the strength to speak one last time.
"I always hated politics," he began, his voice grave and sincere. "I hated the politicians, their empty speeches, their promises that never amounted to anything. It bothered me, Joaquín... it hurt me deeply when you left us to join those people who never cared about us."
Fausto looked away, feeling like a boy again in front of his father.
"But it was your dream," the man continued. "And I, with the wall finished, had sworn to myself to respect any path you and your brothers chose. Because, in the end, you were doing something neither I, nor my father, nor my grandfather could do: choose. Choose what to do with your life in this cruel and hostile world."
Fausto tried to smile, though it was a nervous, fragile one.
"I'm sorry I made you feel that way, Dad."
His father shook his head and squeezed his shoulder tighter.
"No, son. I was wrong. I thought you were looking for a better place to live, and I didn't understand that, in reality, you were doing it so that everyone could live better. Seeing you fight so that people had something to be proud of... that they could think about the future and not just about surviving the present... That made me feel a pride I don't know how to put into words."
He paused. His eyes, hardened by the years, moistened slightly.
"It's incredible. After hearing me curse politicians so many times, after hearing me call them scum and an aberration, you decided to become one. But not just any one... a better one. And you succeeded."
Fausto looked at him in surprise. He had never heard him speak like this.
The man sighed, as if releasing a burden held for years.
"I'm ashamed to admit it, but I couldn't see what you were building at the time. Today I do. And all that's left for me to say is... thank you, son."
Then they embraced. Fausto felt like a child again, sobbing on his father's shoulder and chest. The older man kissed him on the forehead before leaving, urging him to stay strong and continue working.
As his father retired, he encountered Victorino, who was cleaning his pipe. The two gentlemen looked at each other intently, until the former spoke first.
"Thank you for taking care of my son."
"Thank you for raising him with good values," Victorino replied, returning the compliment.
They shook hands, and Fausto's father left, leaving Victorino alone. He looked at Fausto and approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Together they contemplated the glass window in silence, without the need for words.
Sometime later, the news swept through every home and every corner of the seven republics: the President had given birth to a healthy girl, whom they named Isabel Gabriel Freeman. The media kept the topic on the front page for months, making it the center of public conversation.
Karen was resting; she had taken six weeks of leave while her Vice President took charge of governance. The entire society watched the subsequent events expectantly. Although Karen didn't know it, this news seemed to increase the popularity of the Gabriels. Fausto saw this.
The most conservative opposition criticized the presidential rest, arguing that citizens were paying for the maximum representative's vacation, but their voices barely echoed in the relevance of the era.
The main opposition, led by Aníbal Harrington, was brief. There were few statements from him or his party, save for a message wishing the President a speedy recovery—a gesture that proved curious and striking.
During Karen's weeks of rest, Fausto took advantage of every opportunity to give talks in public spaces, defending his wife's management. It was then that sharp declarations from Aníbal were heard:
"Using your wife to build a martyr narrative just because she gave birth, which is respectable, but using her as a political wildcard seems repugnant to me."
These words resonated among the citizens of The Seven Republics, who perceived the accusation as malicious propaganda from Fausto. However, far from being intimidated, he acted with cunning: he did not convene public conferences but opted for a surprise radio appearance. He notified Lexter just hours in advance, some say less, for an interview that would leave little margin for misinterpretations. Lexter, surprised and grateful, accepted with open arms.
Fausto arrived punctually at the studio, and Lexter followed the usual routine, introducing both of them and addressing current social affairs and Aníbal Harrington's statements.
"Sir, have you heard what the head of the opposition party said?" Lexter asked.
"Oh, yes. I had the honor of hearing it," Fausto replied with a slight smile.
"What's your opinion on the matter?"
"It is a valid opinion, but an erroneous one," Fausto answered calmly.
"Why do you think it's erroneous? Forgive me for saying so, but it seems to me that you took advantage of the citizens' enthusiasm to boost a political campaign."
Fausto slightly tilted his head, with a serene look, without losing his composure:
"It's understandable to think that way, Lexter. But that's not how I see it. Since I stopped being president, I have always acted the same way: promoting what I believe is right, without mixing personal interests. Nothing more."
"I see," Lexter said, with a slightly thoughtful gesture. "But some critics point out that your constant public presence lately, giving talks and interviews about your wife's management, can be interpreted as an attempt to indirectly influence politics. What would you say to those who see your role as a kind of 'veiled intervention'?"
Fausto gave a measured smile.
"I would say that is a superficial reading. My intention has never been to intervene in anyone's politics. I simply use spaces to talk about matters I consider important, and I do so with the same freedom as any citizen. If someone interprets that as influence, it's their perception, not my motivation."
"But don't you believe that, given your past as president and the visibility of your name, your words might carry more weight than those of any common citizen?" Lexter asked, measuring every word.
Fausto nodded slightly, without losing his serenity:
"It's true that my voice has a greater resonance; that cannot be denied. But I am also very aware of that and act with care. I do not try to manipulate opinions; I simply share perspectives. The responsibility rests as much on the speaker as on the listener who chooses to form their judgment."
"There are those who accuse that your strategy, even unintentionally, strengthens your wife's image as a political symbol, beyond her role as a citizen. Does it concern you that this perception could generate controversy or political weariness?"
Fausto adjusted slightly in his seat, maintaining his composure, and replied elegantly:
"Politics always generates diverse interpretations. What concerns me is that the criticism is based on assumptions without concrete evidence. My wife and I maintain a clear line: our actions seek to contribute, not to manipulate. That some want to see a symbolism where there is none is part of the public debate; you cannot control everyone's imagination."
"One more thing, sir," Lexter said with a more direct tone, "do you believe that, even unintentionally, this constant media focus on your family can affect the perception of your own figure's impartiality?"
Fausto paused briefly, calculating the answer, and then spoke calmly:
"That is a fair question. And the answer is that I have always tried to separate my personal life from any political interest. I cannot control what others perceive, but I can control my actions. And my actions have been, and will continue to be, consistent with clear principles: respect, integrity, and responsibility. Nothing more."
Lexter nodded, impressed by the way Fausto transformed uncomfortable questions into elegant and prudent assertions. The interview continued, but it was clear that Fausto knew how to handle the pressure of questioning with the subtlety of someone who masters the art of speaking without saying more than necessary.
However, Lexter took a deep breath, carefully measuring the next question:
"Mister Fausto... I know this is delicate, but I must ask: do you plan to run for president again?"
Fausto sighed, barely tilting his head.
"For now... it is not my intention," he replied with serenity. "But I cannot completely rule it out either. Time and circumstances will decide."
As he spoke, his thoughts drifted to the years he had dedicated to rebuilding the nation: the wall that separated civilization from devastation, the teaching of participation, of deciding, of not fearing the shadow of past mistakes. He felt the weight of every decision, every sacrifice, and at the same time, the lightness that came with knowing that the seeds he planted were now growing strongly in others.
He remembered how the people had learned to look beyond fear, how his citizens now walked the nation with hope alight, and how his wife carried the torch he once held. Everything he had done, every effort, every sleepless night, had been worth it. His struggle wasn't eternal, his power had ended, but the dream lived on in every gaze, every voice, every gesture of freedom and responsibility.
Fausto tilted his head slightly, letting a tranquil smile play on his face. His voice returned, calm and firm:
"Lexter, my time in the presidency is behind me. I have fulfilled what I had to, and now my place is beside those who continue the work. My role is different: to accompany, to guide if needed, but without interfering in decisions that are not mine. History does not repeat itself in the same person; it repeats itself in the actions of all who continue to build."
"So you rule out a return to the executive power," Lexter insisted, with a thread of incisive curiosity.
"I do not rule it out as an abstract concept, but I do as a personal destiny. Today I walk unburdened; the history remained, in the walls of time my name was written. I was the first on the path the people marked; today I rest in the breeze that blows over the nation, without fear, without chains, without worry. May the land I once dreamed of flourish, may the winds whisper my faith in its power. She carries the torch as president; her light will shine for everyone."
He paused briefly, letting each word echo in the studio air.
"Power is not eternal; it is only a beacon," Fausto continued, concluding with a firm and poetic tone. "But the dream endures in every corner. If the land is freer, if the people are better, then my struggle was not a mistake. I want the land I once dreamed of to flourish, the just homeland of all, and may the winds whisper my faith in its power. She carries the torch as president; her light will shine. Tomorrow is theirs... I can yield."
Lexter was silent; everyone was silent, but Fausto continued.
"The nation moves forward, and with it, those who believe in a better future. Today I can yield, because I know I left nothing halfway. I apologize if I repeat myself, but I want it to be clear, because I want the land I once dreamed of to flourish... that every step we take honors that effort. Tomorrow is theirs, and I... I am at peace. Because that... That is the promise that unites us."
The interview was over, but Fausto's impression still floated in the air. Once again, he had managed to seize all eyes and words. His statements would be headlines the next day, although it was already clear: he was not seeking candidacy immediately. Something the opposition breathed a sigh of relief about, and that his allies received with silent comprehension.
Upon leaving the radio, a crowd awaited him. He greeted them with measured gestures, fleeting smiles, hands shaking hands. The energy of the people surrounded him, but Fausto barely noticed it; his mind was already at home.
The Government House was quiet. Opening the door, the warmth of the fireplace greeted him first. There was Karen, sitting in her usual armchair, the firelight playing on her face as she hummed the song their daughter had learned that morning. The scene was simple and perfect: the house smelled of wood and freshly brewed coffee—everyday life, far from the noise of microphones and spotlights.
Fausto approached, dropped his coat onto the nearby chair, and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek before settling beside her. Karen leaned her head on his shoulder, as if finding in that contact the calm that politics had stolen from them so many times.
"You have so much faith in me," she whispered, with a thread of tenderness and curiosity in her voice.
"Of course I have faith in you," he replied, intertwining his fingers with hers. "You complete my soul, honey."
Karen looked up at him, searching for sincerity in his eyes.
"Are you really not going to run?"
Fausto sighed, letting his shoulders relax.
"No... not for now," he said, with a serenity that only time and experience could grant. "I want to accompany you for these six years we have left. And when it all ends, to step away from politics for a bit... dedicate time to our family, to our daughter, to ourselves."
Karen smiled, half surprised, half amused.
"Wow... I thought you weren't one to rest."
"I want to enjoy a few quiet years," he retorted, with a smile that mixed mischief and relief. "Maybe being a common citizen will do me good."
Karen laughed, and with a sweet and instinctive movement, she kissed him on the lips. The warmth of the fire, the silence of the house, and the shared heartbeat seemed to stop time.
"As you wish, great citizen," she said, playful.
"You're so mean," Fausto laughed, hugging her gently.
For a moment, there was no country, no politics, no public opinion. There was only them, by the hearth, in the sound of their daughter's laughter from the adjacent room, in the certainty that they could allow themselves to be simple, if only for a few hours.
ns216.73.216.86da2
and then Add to home screen.