A year had passed in the blink of an eye. Stefan now walked with confidence, his short legs carrying him with a determination that amused and amazed the adults around him. His speech had matured to full sentences, often startling visitors and family alike, who never tired of remarking on his cleverness. To them, it was the mark of a gifted child. To Stefan, it was simply the result of a lifetime lived before.
That late-spring morning, Geneva International Airport—Cointrin—hummed with life. Gentle sunlight filtered through enormous glass panes, painting the polished stone floors in soft shades of gold. The wide concourse was a place of elegance, not the chaotic anonymity of later decades. Travelers moved with quiet refinement: men in crisp wool suits, their shoes shined to mirror brightness, polished briefcases at their sides, and silk pocket squares folded with precision. Women glided across the floor in tailored dresses, their scarves draped elegantly over shoulders or tied neatly around their necks. Many wore gloves, handbags hanging gracefully from their wrists. The air carried a mix of perfumes, leather polish, cigarette smoke, and the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifting from a café.
The sounds, too, were distinctive: the click of heels on marble, the muffled clatter of luggage wheels, the soft buzz of French, German, and English layered in the air. Overhead, flight boards clacked mechanically as letters and numbers shifted into place—a vintage rhythm, comforting and orderly. From loudspeakers came the measured tones of announcements, voices calm and clear, each syllable carrying the unmistakable authority of Geneva's international pulse.
Fabio and Lena stood side by side, impeccably dressed for the journey. Lena's hair was arranged neatly beneath a small hat, her gloves immaculate, her dress tailored in subtle pastel hues that spoke of understated elegance. Fabio, in a dark suit that complemented his lean figure, carried himself with the air of a man stepping into a new chapter of responsibility. Between them, Stefan rested in his mother's arms, his wide, curious eyes taking in everything.
He watched the hostesses of Swissair pass by in perfect formation, their navy-blue uniforms crisp, hats tilted just so, every movement efficient yet graceful. His gaze lingered on the café nearby, where waiters in starched aprons served espresso into delicate porcelain cups. He noticed the way travelers held their tickets—not casually, but carefully, as though the slim slips of paper were golden passes to another world.
Flanking the small family were two trusted members of their household. Marta, composed and warm as always, carried herself with a motherly dignity. She fussed over Stefan's little coat, straightening the collar, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. Elise, younger and eager, stood slightly behind, eyes darting nervously between the departure board and the wristwatch on her delicate arm. She clutched the handle of a suitcase with both hands, as though letting go would mean the whole family might miss their flight.
Nearby stood the grandparents, each a study in character. Vittorio, the paternal grandfather, radiated quiet Italian aristocracy. His suit was impeccable, his silver hair combed with meticulous care, and yet it was his embrace of Fabio that revealed his true warmth. Carmen, his wife, carried Stefan close whenever she could, her gentle hands caressing his cheeks, her voice murmuring blessings in Italian, each word like a protective charm.
Across from them stood Heinrich, Lena's father. Tall and broad-shouldered, his expression was stoic, but beneath the stern gaze flickered a tenderness only family could draw out. His wife, Anna, stood beside him, poised and elegant, her gloved hand lingering on Lena's cheek longer than usual, her lips curved in a smile that tried to hide the ache of farewell.
The goodbyes stretched on, thick with emotion. Long embraces, whispered words of comfort, cheeks damp with tears. Pride mingled with sadness, as though every heartbeat carried both loss and hope. Carmen dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief, pretending it was nothing more than a bit of dust. Anna turned toward the large windows, fixing her gaze on the runways beyond, unwilling to let tears betray her in so public a space. Lena clung to her mother a moment longer than she had planned, memorizing her warmth, her scent of lavender and soap.
And then, suddenly, the moment shifted. Vittorio and Heinrich, as if rehearsed, shared a look of conspiratorial amusement. Their rivalry—so often a spark for tension—turned now into a joint performance.
"Before you go," Vittorio began, his voice carrying both gravity and warmth, "we have news."
Heinrich continued seamlessly, his tone firm and steady:"We've merged our companies. And we're opening a branch in Madrid."
The revelation hung in the air like the chime of a bell. EuroAlpina—the fruit of Italian craftsmanship and Swiss engineering—was to become a new powerhouse, with its roots extended into Spain. The Madrid branch, scheduled to open within the year, would support the country's push toward modern industry while ensuring that the family ties remained close.
Not only a business move, but a statement: You will not be alone. They had even begun scouting a villa outside the city—a place not merely of commerce, but of gatherings, summers, and continuity.
Fabio's eyes widened, his voice breaking with emotion."Madrid? You've done this so we're not alone…"
Carmen and Anna responded with affectionate reproach, their pride wrapped in gentle scolding.
"You kept this from us until now!" Anna exclaimed, laughter and tears mingling in her voice."You had us all fooled," Carmen added, a fond smile chasing away the last of her tears.
Stefan, still small in Carmen's arms, tilted his head as though puzzled. His wide eyes shone with childish innocence. Yet within, Johannes stirred. He recalculated rapidly, measuring this new development. With his father's position and his grandparents' presence in Madrid, the web of support around him was growing far stronger than he had dared hope. Opportunities were multiplying. Foundations were being laid.
At that very moment, a trio of bodyguards approached. Their footsteps were measured, their suits plain but their posture unmistakably professional. With them came a sharply dressed man in his forties, his slicked-back hair gleaming under the lights, glasses framing intelligent eyes. He bowed slightly before Fabio, his French accent refined, his demeanor polished.
"Mr. De Angelis, I'm Jean Morel. I've been assigned as your personal adviser and translator during your duties with the European Economic Community in Spain."
Fabio reached out instinctively, shaking the man's hand with a mix of nerves and resolve."Thank you, Mr. Morel. I look forward to working with you."
Behind them, Lena shared one last embrace with her parents. Anna's gloved hand lingered on her daughter's arm, Heinrich's voice offered final words of encouragement, and then—at last—she turned, following her husband, her child, and their new escort toward the departure gate. Elise hurried behind, her small suitcase clattering as she trotted to keep up. Marta whispered a final blessing under her breath, crossing herself discreetly.
As they walked away, Vittorio and Heinrich exchanged quiet words, their voices low but certain."See you soon," they both said, in unison. The weight in their eyes betrayed more than their words ever could.
Outside, the Swissair Caravelle gleamed on the tarmac. Its distinctive nose and engines gave it the aura of modernity and promise. Boarding was orderly, almost ceremonial. Inside, the cabin exuded intimacy: plush seats in neat rows, curtain-draped windows, muted conversations beneath the hum of engines, and the faint haze of cigarettes still permitted in flight.
A stewardess in a sky-blue uniform smiled warmly, offering candies from a silver tray. Stefan accepted one silently, his small fingers curling around the sweet, his mind far more occupied with observation than taste.
He leaned against Lena, absorbing every detail: the subdued chatter, the fragrance of cologne and tobacco, the clink of glassware as drinks were prepared.
It's strange… only decades have passed since my memory's first flight, yet airports feel as if they belong to another age, Johannes thought. Back then, my first true journey was in a military transport—no windows, no comfort, just steel walls and deafening engines. Cold, impersonal, functional. But this… this is different. This is almost ceremonial. Nostalgic, even, though I never lived it before.
Lena adjusted the blanket around him, tucking it neatly, while Fabio leaned slightly across the aisle, speaking in hushed tones with Morel. Stefan caught fragments: trade negotiations, meetings with Spanish officials, timetables. Each word, each plan, was a thread being woven into a fabric that might one day become Europe's future.
Sleep tugged at his eyes. He fought it, listening, analyzing, but the hum of the engines, the warmth of his mother's embrace, and the soft perfume of the stewardess who passed by finally lulled him into drowsiness.
His last thought before surrendering to dreams was simple, almost mundane: Everything is falling into place. Now I just need to prepare—quietly, carefully—for my future.
And with that, Stefan drifted into sleep, the world below shrinking as the Caravelle lifted into the sky, carrying him toward Madrid—toward destiny.