The following morning dawned overcast, as if Madrid's sky had chosen to mirror the heaviness pressing down on the De Angelis family. A pale, washed-out light filtered through the curtains, carrying with it a strange hush. Outside, the city was restless yet subdued: streets still lined with uniformed men, police whistles echoing now and then, and the stiff silhouettes of Civil Guards standing at corners like carved statues.
The smoke was gone, but the smell remained. It lingered faintly in the air like an accusation—gunpowder, burnt metal, and something bitter Stefan could not quite name. Every breath carried the memory of the explosion, reminding them that yesterday's calm world had shattered.
Stefan awoke pressed tightly against his mother. His dreams had been restless, filled with fragmented images of fire and sound. He opened his eyes to find Lena stroking his hair slowly, almost absently, her expression a quiet mask of worry.
Across the room, Fabio was already dressed. His suit was crisp, his tie knotted perfectly, but his face betrayed his sleepless night. He sat at the desk with a folder of documents spread before him, though his eyes had stopped moving over the pages. They were distant, contemplative, his fingers tightening on the papers without realizing it.
Jean Morel stood in the corner, the coiled cord of the rotary phone in his hand. The bulky earpiece pressed to his ear looked almost comical on his refined figure, yet there was nothing amusing about his expression. His tone was measured, his French clipped as he exchanged words with whoever was on the other end. Occasionally, his hand would grip the edge of the table, the knuckles whitening, before he forced himself back into composure.
The passing of a single night had not eased the storm. In an age without instant communication, the weight of ignorance pressed heavier than the threat itself. News arrived fragmented, distorted by distance and protocol. There was no endless stream of live broadcasts, no internet scrolling across a thousand screens. Only slow telexes, encrypted calls, and the hollow sound of rumors that filled the silence.
Jean finally hung up, exhaling through his nose as if trying to release the tension coiled inside him. Fabio looked up at once, his body taut with anticipation.
"—Well?" he asked, voice low, almost cautious.
Jean adjusted his glasses, buying himself a second. "The Commission in Brussels has confirmed something. Yesterday's explosion… it wasn't isolated."
The words hung heavy in the air. Lena froze, her hand still resting on Stefan's head.
Jean continued after a pause. "Similar incidents have been reported. Not all here. Some abroad. Near other delegations."
Stefan's young heart skipped a beat. He sat upright, his mind racing. The mention of Brussels had weight—it anchored this moment to the very heart of Europe. He remembered the European Quarter of his other life, its institutions woven into the continent's history. The Commission had always been there, in those offices, shaping futures. Jean wasn't exaggerating. If Brussels was involved, this was real.
Fabio straightened. "What are we talking about?" His voice was gravelly, harsher than usual. "Accidents? Or is this a message?"
Jean hesitated. He looked at the bodyguards, then at Lena and Stefan, before answering carefully. "The reports are inconclusive. In Paris, a suspicious car followed a delegate. In Bonn, a package was found outside an office. Wires, but it didn't detonate. In Rome… gunshots near a hotel where a technical mission was staying."
He removed his glasses, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "No group has claimed responsibility. No demands. But the timing…" His voice dropped. "…the timing is unsettling."
The silence after his words was almost unbearable.
Lena sat on the bed with Stefan in her lap. Her voice, when it came, was soft but carried an undercurrent of fear. "Do they think we will be attacked too?"
Jean gave her a sad smile, trying to reassure without lying. "We don't know. The Commission asks for discretion. No leaks, no headlines that cause panic. They want us to follow protocol. They are reinforcing surveillance."
Stefan lowered his head. He could feel the shift in the air, in their voices, in the way even the guards shifted uneasily by the door. He listened to the words "Paris," "Bonn," "Rome." Cities he had walked through in another life, in another Europe. Yet none of this matched his memories.
This wasn't supposed to happen. I don't remember any coordinated wave of attacks in 1969. Terrorism existed, yes, but not like this. Not targeted against the Commission.
His certainty wavered, and that terrified him more than the explosion itself. If the path of history had diverged, then all his knowledge was fragile. His "advantage" might already be crumbling.
The bodyguards, usually a quiet presence, moved restlessly now. One checked the window locks for the third time. Another lingered near the hallway, ear tilted for every sound of footsteps. Their tension spread through the room like static.
Jean resumed, his tone all business. "The Spanish authorities have deployed both the Civil Guard and the Policía Armada. They are cooperating fully. The official explanation is that yesterday's attack may have been the work of radicals. But nothing is confirmed."
Fabio gave a grim nod. "Spain cannot show weakness. Not under Franco. They'll bury the truth before they admit to a failure of security." He glanced at Lena and Stefan. "That is why we must stay calm. Panic is exactly what they want."
The hours dragged. The radio in the corner filled the silence with hollow updates. It spoke vaguely of "an incident in central Madrid." No details, only cautious phrases meant to soothe rather than inform. On the foreign bands, reports were wilder. Some said terrorism, others suggested an accident. No one knew, and the contradictions only deepened the unease.
Stefan perched on the chair near the window. His small fingers brushed the curtain aside just enough to peek out. The streets below looked unchanged at first glance. SEAT cars buzzed past, small black taxis with their red stripes paused at intersections, vendors called out in hoarse voices. Children played, laughing as if the world hadn't shaken.
And yet… there was something different. Too many uniforms at the corners. Too many eyes that lingered on passing cars. A strange dissonance stretched between the ordinary life of the people and the invisible weight pressing on the foreign delegation.
Two realities, Stefan thought. The everyday, and the one taking shape in the shadows.
When the afternoon came, Jean received another call. This time the line crackled with coded words. He scribbled quickly, then listened again, his jaw tightening. Finally, he set the receiver down with a sharp click.
"They advise us not to change our plans drastically," he said. "Appearances matter. If we retreat, it signals fear. But every movement must be coordinated with local authorities."
Fabio pinched the bridge of his nose. "So we stay visible enough not to draw suspicion, but not free enough to move as we please. Wonderful."
Jean offered a thin smile. "It's diplomacy. An uncomfortable balance."
Lena stroked Stefan's hair absently. Her voice was quieter than before, edged with a mother's fear. "Couldn't we… just go home?"
Jean shook his head immediately. "No. If these incidents are coordinated, movement is more dangerous than stillness. Brussels believes this hotel is easier to secure."
The sun fell slowly, staining the sky in bruised hues of orange and purple. Madrid's clamor softened into evening rhythms. Yet inside the hotel, the weight only grew heavier. Guards patrolled the hall, their boots echoing on marble floors. From time to time, a radio squawked with clipped commands.
Stefan sat beside his mother on the bed. He did not speak, but the thoughts whirled inside his mind. The fracture in history was widening. He could almost feel it, as if the ground itself was sliding beneath him. His memories were no longer a compass—they were fading maps of a world that might never come.
Before sleep claimed him, he heard murmurs from the adjoining room. Fabio and Jean, their voices hushed. Words like "coordination"… "risk"… "new pattern" drifted through the wall.
A shiver ran down his small spine.
If history itself is changing, then nothing is guaranteed.