Darkness. Distant voices. A woman crying out. Another voice, strained but calm:
"Push, madam… keep pushing."
Johannes's fading mind—adrift between pain and cold—clung to the sound. Light seeped in at the edges of the dark.
They must have called emergency services… did they get me into surgery?
The voices sharpened: "Push, madam… almost there."
His confusion deepened. A bright, sterile glow flooded his vision—curtains, tiled walls, the metallic gleam of instruments. A delivery room. A sharp newborn cry cut the air. He couldn't control it—tears came unbidden. The light swelled… and consciousness slipped from him again.
The nurse—smiling, exhausted—lifted the newborn and placed him carefully in the arms of a young woman. She was in her mid-twenties, with fair hair damp against her temples, green eyes shining through fatigue, and a beauty softened by relief. Sweat still pearled on her brow as she cradled the child, kissing his tiny forehead, breath hitching with joy.
At her side stood a tall man in a hospital gown over his clothes—dark hair, brown eyes, an angular face with a neat, fashionable mustache. He hovered close, hands trembling, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
The doctor approached with a tired, genuine smile.
—Congratulations, Mrs. Lena and Mr. Fabio. It's a healthy boy.
A nurse, still catching her breath, quipped with a small grin:
—He made you wait ten hours, but he was worth it.
Lena let out a soft laugh. She glanced up at her husband.
—What shall we name him?
Fabio's eyes warmed.
—Your grandfather's name… Stefan. And for the middle name, my grandfather's: Vittorio. And he'll take my surname first.
Lena nodded, eyes damp.
—Stefan Vittorio Bianchi Schneider.
She pressed her cheek to the baby's hair. The world seemed to exhale.
One year later.
Stefan had truly "awoken" a few months back—memories and clarity returning in waves that didn't fit a baby's body. Now he lay in his crib, watching as his mother and several household employees decorated the grand hall: streamers, paper rosettes, and a garland that read Happy 1st Birthday. By the window, Fabio sat in a chair beside the crib with a faint smile, leafing through a large, ink-smudged newspaper. No computers, no mobile phones, no glow of screens—just the rustle of paper and the ticking of a wall clock.
Stefan tried to peer at the headlines. A photo, a bold title, a knot in his stomach. International news: a spacecraft in trouble; astronauts who had nearly not returned. Apollo 13. The words lodged in him like a key turning in a lock.
1970. The reality pressed in.
Fabio let out a low sigh and addressed his wife across the room, voice tinged with pity.
—Those poor men… what they went through up there.
One of the maids clucked her tongue softly; another crossed herself.
Stefan's thoughts raced.
April 1970… I really am here. This is real.
Lena noticed her "little one" stirring and hurried over, worry and tenderness mingling.
—Fabio, not sad news today, please. It's his birthday.
Fabio gave an awkward laugh.
—He doesn't understand yet.
Lena shot him a look out of the corner of her eye.
—My son isn't like the others.
She scooped Stefan up; the warmth of her skin, the gentle sway of her breathing, the steady rhythm of her heart—all of it felt too real to be a dream. He glanced around. High ceilings, polished wood, tasteful paintings. A wealthy house… and by the language, likely Germany, he thought, filing away every clue.
The doorbell cut through the soft chatter.
Lena's face brightened.
—That must be my parents.
Fabio stood with a grin and signaled to a maid.
—Please, open the door.
Good, Stefan thought, new pieces on the board. More clues.
Moments later, the maid returned, ushering in an elderly couple still vigorous in bearing. The man wore a perfectly tailored suit of the era—narrow lapels, a neat tie, a brimmed hat in hand; his silver hair was combed with precision, his features sharp, eyes keen. The woman wore an elegant day dress, a short jacket with structured shoulders, gloves, and a discreet string of pearls; her posture spoke of education and habit, not vanity.
—Herr Heinrich Schneider and Frau Anna Schneider, —announced the maid.
Stefan took them in. The cut of the suit, the measured step, the way the staff's eyes shifted as he entered. An important man, perhaps someone with influence.
Warm greetings followed. Anna reached Lena first, embracing her daughter, then deftly "stole" the baby from her arms with delighted murmurs and a flurry of kisses.
Lena pouted playfully; Heinrich gave a polite, slightly sheepish smile. Fabio stepped forward and offered a courteous greeting, formal but warm for the occasion.
Heinrich's gaze slid to him.
—And the business? How are things going?
Before Fabio could answer, Stefan let out a sudden, insistent wail, arms stretching toward Heinrich. For a heartbeat, no one understood what he wanted—until Lena laughed.
—He wants to go with Grandpa.
Heinrich's serious face cracked into a broad grin as he took Stefan into his arms.
The bell rang again. Fabio's expression tightened a fraction—then he smoothed it away and flashed an apologetic grin.
—My parents.
Lena, eyes gleaming with mischief aimed squarely at her father, nodded to a maid.
—Please, the door.
The maid reappeared with another couple: an older gentleman with an impeccable navy suit and a silk pocket square, his dark hair thinning but neatly combed; beside him, a woman in a refined dress with a tasteful shawl and classic heels, her gaze lively and affectionate.
—Signor Vittorio Bianchi y Doña Carmen Bianchi de Soler, —announced the maid with practiced poise.
Vittorio's face lit up the moment he saw Lena and Fabio. Carmen's smile was warm, immediate—she reached for Lena's hands while Vittorio clasped Fabio's shoulders.
Greetings filled the air—cheek kisses, exclamations, laughter. Then, inevitably, the two patriarchs faced each other. Heinrich extended a firm hand; Vittorio took it with equal firmness.
—I see the German clocks are still running ahead, —Vittorio quipped.
—And I see the Italian ones are still running late, —Heinrich replied dryly.
From the side, Anna, Carmen, and Lena exchanged glances—smiles that were not quite smiles. Both men coughed, straightened, and tacked on more diplomatic expressions. Vittorio bent to Stefan and tugged gently at his cheek.
—There you are, ragazzo. You've stolen the whole show.