Thirteen did not feel new anymore.
By winter, Stefan had learned the rhythm of his age—the way adults still tried to protect him without quite knowing how, the way peers measured him with curiosity or discomfort, and the way institutions continued to ignore him by default. It was a narrow corridor between invisibility and expectation, and Stefan walked it carefully, aware that missteps at this stage did not cause explosions.
They caused delays.
Snow dusted the grounds of the Weiss villa that morning, softening edges and muting sound. Trees stood frozen mid-motion, branches heavy with white. Footsteps crunched faintly in the distance as staff moved through the estate, their presence subdued by the weather.
Stefan liked days like this.
They gave the illusion that the world could pause.
It never did—but the illusion gave him space to think.
In his study, the fire burned low. Light filtered in through tall windows, reflecting off the surface of a large map spread across the central table. This was not the political map most people recognized, with thick borders and bright colors declaring sovereignty.
This map was quieter.
Transport corridors traced in fine lines.
Industrial zones marked in muted shading.
Energy flows indicated by arrows so subtle they almost disappeared unless one knew where to look.
Population density suggested through gradients rather than numbers.
This was the Europe that mattered.
Stefan stood over it, pencil in hand, making light markings—never permanent. Rail connections between northern Italy and southern Germany. Ports whose logistics already depended on neighboring states. Manufacturing hubs feeding supply chains that ignored borders long before governments did.
"Integration happens before agreement," he murmured.
In his previous life, leaders had tried to force unity through treaties and declarations. They had spoken of shared destiny while ignoring structural reality. When pressure came—economic, geopolitical, social—those artificial bonds snapped.
Stefan approached the problem differently now.
Make unity inevitable.
If economies were interdependent, political resistance softened.
If infrastructure overlapped, separation became expensive.
If systems aligned quietly, authority would eventually follow.
He stepped back, scanning the map again.
This was not conquest.
It was alignment.
At school, the shift in how others treated him had been subtle but unmistakable.
He was no longer "the strange serious kid."
He had become "the one who explains things."
That carried its own dangers.
At lunch, the cafeteria buzzed with its usual controlled chaos. Trays clattered. Conversations overlapped. Stefan sat with his notebook open, sketching a simplified flow diagram from memory when Elena slid into the seat across from him.
Her tray remained untouched.
"You know people quote you now," she said.
Stefan didn't look up. "That's inefficient."
Elena snorted. "That's reality. Yesterday someone said, 'Even Stefan thinks a federal Europe is possible.' Like you're a reference book."
Stefan paused, pencil hovering. "Did they disagree?"
Elena hesitated. "No."
That unsettled him more than open resistance would have.
Agreement without understanding was fragile. People accepted conclusions long before they accepted responsibility for them.
That was how disappointment formed.
In civics class later that day, the teacher announced a new assignment.
"Group project," she said. "The Future of European Governance."
The class groaned in near-unison.
Stefan raised an eyebrow slightly.
Fate, it seemed, enjoyed irony.
His group was assigned quickly: Lucas, Elena, and a quiet Spanish student named Mateo who rarely spoke unless asked directly. Mateo took notes constantly, his handwriting neat and methodical, his eyes always moving.
Lucas leaned back in his chair. "So… are we doing this as a fantasy exercise, or are we pretending it's realistic?"
Stefan met his gaze calmly. "We're doing what could work."
Elena smiled knowingly. "I knew this would happen."
There was no argument after that.
Stefan didn't present a manifesto. He didn't give a speech. He outlined a framework—carefully, deliberately. Shared defense logistics rather than unified command. Coordinated fiscal boundaries without a single treasury. Local autonomy preserved under federal law, not erased by it.
Mateo finally spoke, voice hesitant but thoughtful.
"This… this sounds like something people would resist."
"Yes," Stefan replied without hesitation. "At first."
Resistance meant engagement. Engagement meant negotiation. Negotiation meant movement.
Indifference was the real enemy.
That evening, Stefan trained longer than usual.
The gym was quiet, the air sharp with cold seeping in through stone walls. Krüger watched him from the corner, arms folded, saying nothing as Stefan moved through endurance drills with controlled precision.
Eventually, Krüger spoke.
"You're pushing again."
"I'm calibrating," Stefan replied between steady breaths.
"Toward what?"
Stefan paused only briefly. "Endurance. Not strength."
Krüger nodded slowly. "Good. Strength draws attention. Endurance wins wars."
Stefan committed that to memory.
At dinner, conversation drifted—as it often did—toward politics.
"Federalization is still a dirty word," Gianluca said, swirling his wine. "Too much fear. Too much history."
"Fear can be managed," Stefan replied. "History can't. That's why it must be acknowledged, not erased."
Vittorio studied him for a long moment. "You're thinking in phases."
"Yes."
Fabio exhaled quietly. "You're thirteen and already talking like a planner."
Stefan smiled faintly. "Planners don't need permission."
No one responded immediately.
That silence carried respect—and concern.
Later, alone again in his study, Stefan returned to the map.
He erased a line he had drawn earlier, replacing it with a softer one. Adjusted an assumption. Rerouted a connection. The pencil marks were light, erasable.
Flexible.
In his past life, Europe had fractured under pressure—energy crises, security threats, economic divergence. The warning signs had been visible years in advance, ignored for the sake of comfort.
This time, he was early.
Not powerful.
Not influential.
But early.
Stefan closed the folder, extinguished the lamp, and stood by the window for a moment, watching snow fall steadily onto the silent grounds.
A federal Europe was no longer a distant ideal.
It was a sequence of steps.
And at thirteen years old, Stefan Weiss possessed something most leaders never did:
Time—and the discipline to use it.