Time passed, and beyond the simmering political climate, nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Finally, the elections arrived. The candidates were practically the same as in the previous contest.
Erick Victorino Sullivan presented himself once again as the representative of the URI party, accompanied by his vice-president, Carlos Tauro. The latter was a key piece for Victorino: by naming him, he completely neutralized the power of Rivas Hidalgo, who had been left out of the equation after losing the party’s internal elections. It was known with certainty that Victorino had sealed substantial backroom deals to ensure the URI members chose him over Hidalgo. That maneuver, viewed by many as questionable, damaged the party's image in the eyes of public opinion to some extent.
Fausto, for the first time, showed disagreement with his old friend and mentor. For better or worse, the position belonged to Rivas Hidalgo. However, he understood that the move—considered by numerous historians as dirty, yet effective—was necessary to govern without significant obstacles in the way. And, in effect, it worked: as the years passed, it became known that Mr. Tauro lacked the political charisma necessary to dispute any real influence within the party or before the people.
At the other end of the political board stood the adversaries. The historic rival was Aníbal Torcuarto Harrington, accompanied by his vice-presidential candidate, Clara Montaña, a young deputy of the party. There are no reliable records from that era regarding her figure, as, following this participation, she resigned mysteriously from her seat and walked away completely from the political sphere. Harrington took the reason for that abrupt disappearance to his grave.
The UL party also competed, led by Doctor Clementino Navarro, a former presidential candidate during the mandate of Ana Uribe, who by then had already retired from politics. Accompanying him as vice-president was a very young Amanda Paz, barely twenty-two years old, whose foray into politics had been driven by a deep admiration for Uribe.
Finally, closing the contest was the PM party, headed by General Roger Catamarca, with Vicente Granado as his vice-president. Gerald Reccson, on the other hand, did not participate directly. It was his vice-president who assumed the role of presidential candidate, a decision forced by circumstance: the Reccson surname had been irremediably stained after the attempted coup d'état.
To avoid further damage to his party, Gerald withdrew his candidacy and never involved himself in politics again, neither actively nor passively. He remained in the Army, where he continued his career until retiring in silence. Curiously, he was the only Reccson who was never associated with infamy. In the light of later years, his silence—ironic and almost involuntary—ended up saving his memory. He would be known as an adversary, not as a villain.
And then, the debate arrived.
The four figures stood there, face to face, under the cold lights of the auditorium, just as they had been eight years prior. Time had passed, but the political wounds remained open; not scars, but cracks that had become structural. The public did not expect promises: they expected collisions.
Clementino was the first to take the floor.
He spoke in a sober, almost technical tone, avoiding grandiloquence. He explained how the economy had attempted to grow on repeated occasions, but each attempt was suffocated by a fiscal system that reacted with automatic reflexes: when companies showed improvement, the State increased the tax burden beyond what was reasonable—not to invest strategically, but to sustain oversized and inefficient administrative structures. He did not deny the need for the State—that would have been too simple—but he questioned its form: a heavy apparatus that confused control with asphyxiation.
Then he advanced toward more uncomfortable terrain. He acknowledged without hesitation the cases of corruption within his own political space, but he did not use them as an excuse, but as a warning. He posed a question that was left floating in the room: if a party that had been in power for decades had lost the ability to self-regulate, was it prudent to continue delegating even more authority to it? He did not accuse directly; he let the silence do the work.
Victorino responded, but not immediately.
He deliberately ignored Clementino’s words, as if they had never existed, and reframed the debate. He began to speak of sovereignty and order, proposing that the State assume more direct control over the immense walls that protected the Seven Republics, arguing that they could not remain in fragmented hands nor under mixed interests. He promised wage improvements, adjustments to bonuses, and defended his stance with figures: inflation had grown, yes, but so had salaries. The problem—he admitted—was not the present, but the fear of the future, the fear that prices would continue to accumulate zeros until any raise was emptied of meaning.
His speech appealed to stability, but it left an ambiguous sensation: was it a solution, or merely temporary containment?
Catamarca took the floor with energy.
He spoke of force, of determination, of political decision. His speech was long, elaborate, even brilliant in form. However, it failed to connect. The auditorium remembered all too well the attempted coup against President Karen; the memory was fresh, uncomfortably alive. Catamarca seemed to believe that the weight of his words would suffice to reverse that image, as if rhetoric could erase facts.
He did not succeed.
He didn't even provoke rejection. What he generated was something worse: irrelevance. He attacked with vehemence those he considered his true rivals, Harrington and Victorino, but his blows left no mark. He received only brief, measured, almost condescending responses. That intervention laid bare something deeper: the party he represented, the PM, did not know how to—or could not—comprehend politics beyond direct confrontation. They confused noise with impact.
Finally, Harrington spoke. The eternal rival, the only one who seemed to enjoy the moment.
He did not raise his voice nor resort to slogans. He observed Victorino with patience and aimed exactly where it hurt. He questioned the real viability of his promises, not through insults, but through comparison. How did he plan to fulfill them if he hadn't even reached a fraction of the leadership Fausto had possessed? He pointed out that Victorino built his speech leaning on an inheritance that did not belong to him, borrowing someone else's prestige instead of forging his own. Without political identity, he said, no project survives.
It was a harsh critique. And, in large measure, true.
Victorino was not charismatic. He never had been.
But he did not let himself be intimidated. Because he did have a political trajectory of his own.
He responded with calm, like a gentleman who understands that losing one's temper is losing the debate. He did not deny his limitations, but defended his approach: less epic, more management; less figurehead, more structure. He didn't convince everyone, but he didn't fall either.
The debate ended without a clear winner.
And then came election day.
The Seven Republics returned to vote for a president, as they had done so many times, though no one could pretend it was just another day. From dawn, the cities woke with a strange silence, broken only by the metallic noise of ballot boxes opening and by long, patient lines loaded with tired gazes. In some districts, people voted under rain; in others, under a suffocating heat that made anxiety sweat.
Both President Karen and former President Fausto went to vote that morning, but this time they did not do so alone. The six-year-old girl in her mother's arms contrasted with the severe expression of the mandatary. The scene, simple in appearance, held a ritualistic quality: power, the past, and the future walking together toward the same ballot box.
Karen made no statements. Not before, not after. Her silence was absolute, almost deliberate, as if every word could tip the scales of an entire country. Fausto, on the other hand, spoke. He always spoke. Facing the microphones, he recalled what it meant to vote with a daughter in one's arms; he spoke of the responsibility of fatherhood and the emotion of seeing the people return to the polls once more. He said it was a source of pride, that voting remained a sacred act, even when faith in institutions was worn thin.
Upon leaving the voting booth, the journalists descended upon Karen like hungry birds. She merely shook her head. It was her husband who stepped forward, raising a firm hand to mark distance, while she adjusted the child against her chest. There were no smiles, no gestures, nothing. They boarded the carriage without looking back and left, leaving behind a silence more eloquent than any speech.
On the other hand, Victorino went to vote only with his daughter, Elena Victorino—her first public appearance. Since Erick was with her, he made sure to vote and get out of there as quickly as possible, for Victorino was known to be very protective of his family.
At the other end of the city, Harrington arrived alone. Without his daughters, Alma and Graciela, nor his granddaughters, Telma, Dora, and Ava. Without anyone to escort him. When asked about his family, he responded naturally that his daughters had already voted early, and that he had been delayed. He didn't give too many explanations. He spoke, instead, of the suffocating heat, of the importance of not getting discouraged, of the need for people to go out and vote regardless, even if tired, even if fed up. His tone was kind, almost paternal.
Clementino was another matter. A different case entirely. As soon as he arrived, he sought out the microphones. He declared that he expected a "clean" election—a seemingly innocent phrase, but loaded with poison. The word remained floating in the air and gave rise to multiple interpretations, most without any basis. Electoral fraud. Manipulation. Invisible traps. The UL party would carry this forward in future years, sowing that suspicion, and Clementino did nothing but be the first to fertilize it. For those declarations, as ambiguous as they were incendiary, he was sanctioned with a fine of fifteen thousand lunarios for incitement to hate.
Catamarca, in contrast, made a spectacle of nothing. No one waited for him. No journalist, no reporter, not a single camera. He entered, voted, and left. His passage through the election day was so silent it seemed not to have happened. In an election marked by gestures, symbols, and statements measured to the millimeter, his irrelevance was absolute. And perhaps, precisely because of that, it was the most honest of all. Within reason.
The response from the ballot boxes, when it arrived, was clear.
But not immediate.
Meanwhile, Victorino was at the Government House, sitting across from Fausto. They didn't speak of politics. Or, at least, not explicitly. They conversed about books neither had finished, about an absurd anecdote from their youth, about Fausto's fatherhood and his responsibilities—a notable detail being that Victorino got along very well with Fausto's daughter. It was idle chatter, almost deliberately superficial, as if both knew that any important word spoken before the result would be a mistake.
The radio remained on in a corner of the room.
Hours passed.
There were interrupted calls, technicians asking for patience, rumors running faster than official data. At some point, Victorino stood up to pour himself coffee and let it go cold without tasting it. Fausto, conversely, did not move. He listened.
Finally, the announcer's voice imposed itself over the static murmur.
With more than ninety percent of the tables scrutinized, the result was announced.
Erick Victorino: 62.3%.
A number that left no margin for interpretation.
Aníbal Harrington trailed far behind with 21.7%, enough to sustain his space, insufficient to dispute power. Clementino Navarro reached 10.4%, confirming that his warnings had been heard, but not chosen. Vicente Catamarca closed with 5.6%, a finale befitting a campaign that never managed to take off from its own past.
Victorino did not raise his arms.
He did not smile.
He only closed his eyes for a second, as if the weight of the result were greater than the victory itself. Outside, people began to react: contained celebrations in some neighborhoods, silent resignation in others, and a common question floating in the air of the Seven Republics.
Fausto noticed it. The way Victorino had stopped speaking, the way his firm hands barely trembled. He approached him without haste and rested a hand on his shoulder, with the familiarity of one who had already passed through that same abyss.
"Congratulations," he said, with a sincere smile. "You won."
Victorino blinked, as if waking from a dream that was too large. He smiled. He opened his eyes wide.
"So it is."
He let himself fall back into the chair and slowly turned his head toward the window of the Government House. Below, the city had begun to burn with lights and voices. People embracing, flags waving, chants rising like an endless tide. The URI party was imposing itself again, for the third consecutive time. History, at least for now, followed the same course.
Victorino said his goodbyes shortly after. He shook Fausto’s hand, greeted Karen with respect, and left. It was his night, his victory, his burden. Fausto and Karen stayed behind, like two shadows that had already learned how to withdraw.
Karen remained in the presidential office until night fell. She didn't sign decrees, didn't read reports. She limited herself to observing the city through the window, arms crossed, breathing slowly. Outside, the celebrations did not cease.
Fausto entered in silence.
Later he would say that he didn't find her happy, but something much stranger and rarer for her: at peace. A deep, definitive calm. Something he hadn't seen in years.
Karen spoke without turning.
"It's over..." she said. "I am free."
Fausto laughed softly.
"I didn't know you felt like a prisoner."
"I was," she replied. "The first two years were fun, I think, if we leave out the coup attempt, of course. And the rest... was pure responsibility. And even more so when every decision stole hours away from my daughter."
Fausto nodded.
"I suppose that is the price of command."
"Now it is in Victorino's hands," Karen said. "He will do well. I know he will do well."
"He is an expert at surviving this," Fausto replied. "That is already quite a lot."
It was then that Karen looked out the window again. The crowd had gathered in front of the Government House. They were shouting her name. And Fausto’s. As if the country refused to let them go completely.
"I suppose I have to give a speech," she murmured.
"A good one," said Fausto.
Karen gave him a light punch on the shoulder.
"What?"
"Just saying."
"Idiot."
Hours passed, and the human tide grew until it occupied every corner of the plaza. Finally, Karen stepped out onto the balcony accompanied by her husband and daughter, who didn't fully understand why so many people were shouting, but clung to her mother's hand with a shy smile.
Karen took a step forward.
And she spoke.
"Citizens..."
The crowd fell silent.
"Today I do not present myself before you as President," she continued, "but as a woman who has served her nation with everything she had, even when that meant giving up parts of herself."
She paused. She looked at the plaza. She looked at the faces—joyful, euphoric, expectant, tired, hopeful, wounded. All kinds of gazes.
"Governing is not commanding. Governing is carrying the weight of decisions that are never fair to everyone, but must be honest. I have made mistakes. Many. And I have also taken difficult decisions that not everyone shared. But every single one of them was made thinking of the future of this country."
She squeezed her daughter's hand.
"Today I hand over power, and I do so without fear. Because when a country can change hands without blood, without rifles, and without hatred, then that country is alive."
The plaza erupted in applause.
"Believe in the one who comes after me. Demand of him. Criticize him. Accompany him. Democracy is not sustained by strong leaders, but by awakened, determined, and brave people."
Her voice trembled barely.
"I leave with peace of mind. I leave knowing I did not govern alone, that every step was accompanied by you. And I leave with the certainty that this country is bigger than any name, even mine."
She took a deep breath.
"Take care of it. Take care of each other. And never forget that true power is not up here..."
She pointed to the Government House.
"...But down there, where today you beat as one."
Karen bowed her head.
"Thank you. Farewell."
The ovation was not immediate.
First, there was a dense, profound silence, as if the entire plaza needed a second to comprehend that it was truly over. And then came the applause. It was not a chaotic outburst, but something sustained, long, almost respectful. Some wept. Others lifted their children so they could see. Many shouted nothing; they simply applauded.
Karen took a step back.
She waved no more. She sought no journalists or reporters. She took her daughter in her arms and turned. Fausto followed her without saying a word. The balcony doors closed with a dry, definitive sound.
Inside, the Government House seemed larger than usual. The corridors were empty, the lights dim. Karen stopped in front of the door to the presidential office. She looked at it for a few seconds. Then she entered.
She walked to the desk. On the wood still rested papers that no longer belonged to her, decisions another would sign. She took off the presidential sash with care, as if it were something fragile, and left it folded, perfect, in the center of the desk.
She looked out the window one last time.
The plaza was still alive.
Karen turned off the light.
When she left, she closed the door without locking it.
Outside, the night received her like just another citizen. Fausto took her hand. Her daughter rested her head on his shoulder, overcome by exhaustion.
And while the Government House remained behind, illuminated but empty, Karen understood that power is not lost when it is surrendered.
It is lost only when one clings to it.
She kept walking. And the country... did too.
Days passed. Then months. And finally, the twelfth of December arrived.
Congress dawned covered by an expectant silence, different from that of any other day. Since early morning, the nearby streets were closed and the city seemed to hold its breath. It was not a party: it was a transition. The exact moment one era ended and another began.
Erick Victorino arrived in a carriage, advancing with a slow and measured pace. He descended in front of Congress and entered with elegance, leaning on his cane, not as a symbol of frailty, but of perseverance. Beside him walked his vice-president, Carlos Tauro, serious, upright, conscious of the weight they shared.
The senators stood up.
At the back of the ceremonial hall, under the silent gaze of the seven statues representing the founding republics, waited Karen and Vice-President Amanda Ventura. Karen no longer wore the presidential sash. That absence spoke more than any word.
Victorino advanced toward them. The echo of his steps resonated in the hall.
Karen administered the oath with a firm voice, without tremors, without visible nostalgia. Victorino responded with clarity, holding her gaze, as if in that act a pact was sealed not only with the law, but with history itself.
When the process ended, Karen lifted the presidential sash and placed it over Victorino's shoulders. For a second, both remained motionless. Then she embraced him with warmth, without cameras, without artifice. There were no similar gestures with the vice-presidents: there the protocol was strict, reduced to handshakes and brief glances.
Victorino took a deep breath.
The sash was heavy.
He turned toward the full Congress. He did not reach for papers. He carried no written speech. He raised his eyes, rested both hands on his cane... and spoke.
"Honorable Representatives. Today I do not present myself before you as a victor, but as a servant. Because no one really wins when they assume this office. One assumes a debt. With history. With the present. With those who have not yet been born."
He paused briefly.
"I inherit an immense country, one that has doubted, that has argued with itself... but that never stopped voting, never stopped believing that the future is decided without violence. For that, above all, I want to thank the one who preceded me."
He turned his head slightly toward Karen.
"Governing is knowing how to leave. And you did so with dignity."
A murmur ran through the hall.
"I do not promise magical solutions," he continued. "I do not promise unanimity, because a united country is not a silent country, it is a country that debates. I promise work. I promise to listen. I promise never to forget that power is not born here, but outside, where the common people live."
He gripped the cane tightly.
"This cane is not for support," he said. "It is memory. It reminds me that governing is advancing even when it hurts, even when it costs."
He raised his gaze toward the statues.
"To the seven republics I say: there will not be one above another. There will be no small voices. There will be no second-class citizens. This mandate will be one of balance, of respect, and of reconstruction."
His voice became more intimate.
"To those who did not vote for me: I am also your president. To those who mistrust: you have the right. To those who expect too much: I ask for patience and commitment. No country rises solely from an office."
He breathed deeply.
"Today I swear to care for this nation. Not to possess it. Not to use it. To care for it. And when the day comes for me to leave, I hope to do so like Karen: leaving a country standing and my conscience clear."
He lowered his head slightly.
"May history judge us. And may the people never fall silent."
The Senate began to applaud, including Karen. Victorino looked around and could see Fausto, in his old attire—white shirt, vest with shoulder pads, red tie—applauding with a sincere and warm smile.
Victorino smiled at this gesture.
The Senate's applause exploded like a single breath held for years. It was not thunderous, but deep, dense, charged with history. Amidst the clapping hands, Victorino sought faces, not titles.
Then he saw him.
Fausto was there, with his old attire intact, as if time had never managed to convince him to change: a somewhat worn white shirt, vest with marked shoulder pads, red tie knotted with a silent dignity. He applauded slowly, without exaggeration, with a sincere and warm smile, the kind that does not seek to be seen. It was the smile of someone who did not gain power, but did gain peace.
Victorino returned the gesture with a brief, contained smile. No more was needed. There were words that had already been spoken years ago, written not with ink, but with decisions.
But it wasn't over yet.
While the senators began to withdraw, wrapped in conversations and future promises, Fausto approached his wife. He hugged her with the strength of someone returning home after a war that left no visible scars, but weariness in the bones. He gave her a brief, intimate kiss. Their daughter was with them; Karen picked her up without thinking and kissed her cheek. The girl laughed, oblivious to the weight of the day, as if the world were still simple.
"Now, yes... it's over," said Karen, exhaling.
"Well," Fausto replied, with a half-smile. "Now you're just a regular person."
"Yes," she answered. "I'm a regular person."
"I thought you were going to hit me."
"I'll do it later."
They went out together to the exterior of Congress. The air was clear, clean, as if even the sky had decided to call a truce. They waited in silence for the exit of Victorino and his vice-president.
Minutes later, the doors opened.
Victorino appeared under a generous sun. The crowd began to applaud, not as before, but with a different affection, closer. The carriage waited, impeccable, prepared to take both men to the Government House. Vice-President Tauro waved with courtesy, raised his hand, smiled, and finally climbed into the carriage.
Victorino advanced behind him.
The coachman opened the door. Victorino rested a foot inside... and stopped.
It wasn't a second, nor two.
They were long, uncomfortable, suspended minutes.
Fausto stopped applauding. His smile dismantled into astonishment. Even Carlos, from inside the carriage, leaned toward the door.
"What is happening?" he asked.
Victorino looked ahead, but in reality, he was looking at nothing. At that invisible place where voices, demands, and hopes accumulate. He smiled with a calm that was not improvised. He withdrew his foot from the carriage.
"I want to walk," he said.
Then he turned his face. He sought Fausto in the crowd and, upon finding him, added with a slight, almost intimate smile: "To be able to listen."
Carlos did not understand. The coachman neither. The door closed. The carriage departed for the palace with the vice-president inside, leaving behind something more than just protocol.
Victorino remained alone.
He walked along the sidewalk, slowly, greeting, shaking hands, inclining his head. Every step was a word. Every greeting, a line written in the air. He carried nothing, nor immediate escort: only his cane and the weight of seven republics beating in his chest.
Karen, confused at first, finally understood. She turned her face and saw her husband. Fausto was smiling while he applauded, but his eyes were shining. He held back tears like one who understands that there are endings that do not hurt, but move the soul.
"Honey..." she murmured.
Fausto hugged Karen with their daughter in his arms while he laughed and cried at the same time. In that gesture, there was pride, relief, and a silent farewell that needed no words.
Victorino kept walking until the presidential palace appeared before him: the Red House. A long time had passed, too many things, but he had finally arrived. At the entrance, the butler and the vice-president awaited him.
"What was that?" asked his vice-president, still bewildered.
Victorino let out a brief laugh.
"Just a bit of theater, nothing more."
Without adding another word, he climbed the steps and crossed the doors of the Government House. The vice-president remained behind, more confused than before. The butler, however, smiled in silence: he had understood.
ns216.73.216.82da2
and then Add to home screen.