The first days in Brussels were a whirlwind of impressions. The city pulsed with a rhythm unlike Madrid's—less vibrant, less impulsive, but alive with a quiet intensity that seemed to vibrate beneath its cobblestones. I pressed my forehead lightly against the cold car window as the convoy advanced through its ordered streets, watching everything with the awareness of someone who knew that appearances were only half the truth.
Flags fluttered in the damp wind above solemn government buildings. Streetcars rolled by with precise punctuality. The smell of roasted coffee and rain-washed stone filled the air. Strangers in gray coats hurried with their umbrellas tucked tight, eyes fixed forward, each absorbed in their own quiet purpose. The city didn't dance like Madrid—it calculated, measured, and recorded. Every corner felt like a chessboard, and every passerby a piece waiting for its move.
Our new residence stood in one of the city's prestigious quarters—a villa with wrought-iron gates, high windows, and gardens trimmed into perfect geometry. It wasn't the open expanse of La Moraleja's estate, but it had its own gravity. Each corridor whispered of discretion. Each curtain was positioned for privacy rather than beauty. I could tell this house had been chosen not for comfort, but for control.
My grandparents came with us, of course. Vittorio, ever eloquent, explained that "his Italian holdings demanded direct supervision in Brussels." Heinrich justified his stay with the calm certainty of a man who understood influence. "Switzerland may be neutral," he said dryly, "but neutrality is most effective when you stand close enough to listen."
I was young, but not naïve. Their presence was not family convenience—it was strategy.
That first night, I lay awake listening to the city hum beyond the walls. The house creaked like an old diplomat clearing his throat. Guards shifted outside, the dull weight of their boots pressing against the wet pavement. Somewhere down the hallway, a clock ticked too loudly, echoing in the stillness.
Sleep came in short bursts, filled with half-dreams of Madrid—flashes of light, gardens, the man who had once stared at me from a crowd. Sometimes I thought I heard his voice, though reason told me it was only memory playing tricks. I turned over, whispering to myself: "Too much caution dulls the spirit… but no caution invites the knife."
The next morning brought order. Brussels was a city that lived by schedules, and I had to adapt. My new school was international—a polished building surrounded by trimmed hedges and flags from a dozen nations. Children arrived in cars bearing diplomatic plates. Inside, classrooms echoed with multiple languages.
I introduced myself in French, switched to English when the teacher smiled encouragingly, and then answered a question in Spanish just to see how it felt to change voices. I wasn't showing off—I was testing boundaries. The boy sitting next to me whispered, "You talk funny." I smiled. "It helps me listen better," I said. He frowned, unsure what I meant, and I left it at that.
Each subject—arithmetic, geography, languages—unfolded like a set of tools rather than lessons. Maps fascinated me most. When the teacher traced the lines dividing Europe, I felt the same ache I had known back in Madrid, flipping through atlases. Those borders, so precise on paper, looked fragile—mere threads stretched over storms.
At home, my father's schedule had already turned relentless. Meetings at the Commission, dinners with men whose names appeared in newspapers, corridors where handshakes lasted just a little too long. Jean Morel was omnipresent, gliding between rooms with the quiet certainty of a man who understood proximity to power. He handled correspondence, meetings, and crises with equal poise.
I often watched him from the edge of doorways, fascinated by his tone—always courteous, never warm. My mother, graceful as ever, treated him with professional respect but measured distance. Sometimes I caught her observing him, her expression unreadable. In politics, silence was often the loudest opinion.
The gardens became my sanctuary. Even in the drizzle, I walked with my grandfather Heinrich. His steps were steady, his words sharper than the cold."Brussels is a stage," he told me one afternoon, eyes scanning the trimmed hedges. "People perform honesty here, but deals are sealed behind closed doors. Learn to read the pauses between words—that is where truth hides."I nodded, committing every syllable to memory. Heinrich never wasted breath.
The days fell into rhythm—school, studies, discreet lessons in etiquette and speech from my mother, reports whispered in my father's office. At times, I felt like the walls themselves were listening, absorbing our every word. Yet, I didn't resent it. This was training—a shaping of vigilance.
Weekends were no respite. There were receptions, gatherings of ambassadors and investors, charity events where glasses clinked and laughter filled ornate rooms. I sat politely among other children, answering questions about school, about Spain, about languages. The adults saw me as decoration—a symbol of family stability. I smiled when expected, listened when ignored.
But as I watched the room, I learned far more than they imagined. The way one man leaned toward another when discussing policy. The way a woman's hand tightened on her wineglass when a name was mentioned. Power lived in gestures, not in speeches.
Once, Vittorio leaned close to me during one such event and murmured, "Do you see the man by the window? The one pretending to study the rain?" I nodded. "He works for the Commission's trade bureau. He came uninvited.""How do you know?" I whispered back.Vittorio smiled faintly. "He listens more than he speaks. A man who listens in silence is either a poet… or a spy. And I have read his poetry. It is terrible."
His humor was dry, but his point was clear. I learned to observe, to discern patterns in faces, tones, movements. My notebook—once filled with childish sketches—became something else. I wrote phrases like: "Silence is rarely empty.""Power hides behind courtesy.""Fear speaks softly in public."
Rain became a constant companion. Brussels seemed carved from water—mist over rooftops, droplets tracing down windows, the city's very breath damp. One afternoon, the rain pulled us into a small bookshop near Rue de la Loi. My mother browsed philosophy; I was drawn to a shelf of old atlases.
Their covers were cracked, their pages worn with time. I turned to a map labeled Europe Before the Great War. Borders bled across each other like bruises. I touched them lightly, feeling history pulse under my fingers. Nations were so confident in their permanence—and yet, they had all been redrawn. The fragility fascinated me.
Back home, I wrote in my secret journal: "Empires fall not because they are attacked, but because they forget why they were built." I stared at that sentence for a long time before underlining it twice.
Evenings became moments of reflection. The adults discussed policies behind closed doors, but fragments reached me through vents and walls—words like "unification," "energy," "stability." Jean Morel's voice was steady, but something about it carried a warning. My father's tone grew firmer with each passing week. The weight of his responsibilities was visible now—in his slower smiles, in the shadows beneath his eyes.
Sometimes, when I passed by his study, I heard him sigh. I wanted to enter, to ask what burden he carried, but instinct told me this was not the time. He was building foundations I could not yet touch.
Carmen, ever protective, distracted me with warmth and stories of Italy. But even she grew quieter as the months passed. "Change is coming, piccolo mio," she whispered once, smoothing my hair. "The world moves faster when you stop watching it. Never stop watching."
Her words echoed later that night as I stood at the window, watching the rain streak the glass. I imagined each droplet as a moment in time—separate, fleeting, but together forming a pattern. A future. Brussels was teaching me more than I expected: the art of patience, the value of silence, and the danger of complacency.
One evening, after everyone had gone to sleep, I sneaked into the drawing room. Moonlight slanted across the polished floor. On my father's desk lay several folders marked with seals I didn't yet understand. I didn't open them—I wasn't reckless—but I studied the arrangement of documents, the signatures, the names. I whispered them quietly to myself so I wouldn't forget.
That night, before returning to bed, I wrote one final note: "Every secret leaves a trace. To lead is to recognize the trail."
Weeks turned into months, and Brussels no longer felt foreign. The city's rhythm became part of me. The trams' hum was like a pulse. The weather, a test of resilience. Even school felt different now. I had begun to form connections—a small circle of friends, a teacher who saw curiosity rather than precocity. I learned to mask insight with childishness, to ask innocent questions that probed deeper than they seemed.
Each day, I added to my notebook: maps, lines, ideas. It wasn't about geography anymore. It was about influence—the invisible forces that shaped people and nations alike.
And always, when the city grew quiet and my mind drifted before sleep, I remembered the vow I had made that first night: I would learn to read the invisible. I would decipher what others refused to see. Because to lead one day, I would need to build on more than privilege or memory—I would need mastery over perception itself.
Brussels was not simply a change of residence. It was a crucible.
And I could feel the forging begin.