Time was no longer measured in hours, but in cycles of tension.

  The cycle began with Father’s arrival. The residence would stiffen, servants moved faster, guards straightened their posture.

  Then came the meetings in the library—voices that occasionally rose, followed by silences more dangerous than shouting.

  After that, Father would leave again, taking the tension with him, leaving behind air that felt like the aftermath of a storm—lighter, but fragile.

  In the middle of that cycle, I found an unexpected escape: the Palace Library.

  The room was as large as a hall, with dark wooden shelves reaching all the way to the ceiling. The scent of old paper, dust, and decaying wood filled the air like a complex perfume.

  These books were not decorations. They were real archives—legacies of previous regimes, some untouched for decades.

  This was where I spent most of my days. Eleanor had her fish pond, Isabella had her new piano, and I had stacks of outdated documents on colonial-era agricultural policies.

  One morning, Mother joined me between the shelves.

  “Looking for something specific?” she asked, her eyes scanning the titles.

  “Just reading whatever I find,” I replied honestly. “It’s interesting to see how people in the past solved problems.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Irrigation. Land taxes. Rice prices.” I shrugged. “Boring things.”

  She smiled faintly—the warmest smile she’d given since we moved here.

  “Most children your age would be looking for adventure or war stories.”

  “Wars are messy,” I said, turning a page of a 1905 coffee harvest report. “And often the solutions are hidden in boring things.”

  She studied me for a long moment. “Sometimes I forget you’re still a child.”

  “Sometimes I forget too,” I muttered.

  She let out a short laugh, brittle, like a cracked bell.

  Comedy within the palace was often unintentional—and usually involved Eleanor.

  Case in point: our first state ceremony as a family.

  We stood on the balcony, waving to the crowd below, gathered either by order—or curiosity.

  Eleanor, in a white lace dress that made her look like a misplaced wedding cake, chose that exact moment to ask loudly:

  “Why are they waving little flags? Are they cheerleaders?”

  Isabella hissed beside her. “Be quiet, El. They’re showing support.”

  “But they don’t look happy,” Eleanor protested. “Look at the man in front with the square mustache. He looks like he has a stomachache.”

  I glanced down. Eleanor wasn’t entirely wrong. The crowd was quiet, their movements mechanical. Some faces were blank. Others tense.

  “Maybe they’re nervous,” I whispered to her. “Meeting a new leader.”

  “When I’m nervous, I want to use the bathroom,” Eleanor muttered. “Not wave flags.”

  Mother, who overheard us, placed a slightly firm hand on Eleanor’s shoulder.

  “That’s enough, dear. Smile and wave.”

  Eleanor waved with excessive enthusiasm, like she was swatting a giant invisible fly.

  I noticed a few people below smiling—real smiles, this time.

  Perhaps the only honest moment of the entire ceremony.

  Not all comedy was harmless, however. Some of it turned into hard lessons.

  That lesson came in the form of a bird.

  More precisely, an old cockatoo named Coco—a leftover from Father’s predecessor, somehow forgotten in the palace gardens.

  The bird lived in a large cage inside the greenhouse, ignored by everyone except an elderly gardener who still fed it.

  I found Coco by accident while exploring the neglected back areas of the palace.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  He perched calmly, his colorful feathers slightly faded, one eye watching me with suspicious intelligence.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “HELLO!” the bird squawked, his raspy voice eerily similar to a former president I’d once heard on old radio recordings.

  “IN THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE! IN THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE!”

  I froze.

  This… was bad.

  “Who taught you that?” I asked carefully, stepping closer.

  “PROSPERITY! UNITY!” Coco screamed, followed by a sound like a creaking door.

  “ORDER! ORDER!”

  I looked around. No one else. Just tropical plants and the distant sound of a fountain.

  This bird was a living time capsule, repeating slogans from the old regime.

  Under the new order Father was trying to build, Coco was a walking—or flying—liability.

  “You need to learn new sentences,” I whispered.

  The bird tilted his head. “Small boy. Quiet.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “But you also need to be quiet about certain things.”

  I returned to the palace with my thoughts racing.

  The bird was dangerous. Anyone could hear him and report it—or worse, use him as evidence that our family was still tied to the old regime.

  But killing him? That was cruel—and risky. The old gardener would ask questions.

  The solution came the next day, when I sneaked back with a small bag of sunflower seeds and a children’s poetry book.

  “Listen,” I said, sitting near the cage. “We’re going to learn something new.”

  The next two hours were a painful lesson in interspecies diplomacy.

  Coco was a difficult student. He preferred political jargon over poetry.

  But sunflower seeds were powerful motivation.

  “The sun… sets,” I read slowly.

  “SUN!” Coco shrieked. “RISES! PROGRESS!”

  “No. Sets. Golden sky.”

  “GOLD! FOREIGN RESERVES!”

  This was hopeless.

  So I changed tactics.

  If I couldn’t teach him poetry, I would teach him silence.

  I only rewarded him when he stayed quiet for a certain count. Basic conditioning. Like training a dog.

  Five days later, progress appeared. Coco still occasionally blurted out “Stability!” or “Sovereignty!”, but less often.

  He even learned a harmless phrase: “Nice day.”

  I considered it a major victory.

  But nature has a dark sense of humor.

  One afternoon, while Father was holding a small meeting near the greenhouse—with Colonel Mendez, of course—Eleanor decided to show Isabella her “discovery.”

  “I’ll show you the talking bird!” she shouted, dragging a reluctant Isabella along.

  I was reading nearby when I heard her voice.

  My heart stopped.

  “Eleanor, wait—”

  Too late.

  They reached the cage just as Father’s guest passed through the garden.

  “Look!” Eleanor shouted. “The bird is smart! Coco, say ‘Nice day’!”

  Coco puffed out his chest, noticing the audience. His sharp eye locked onto Mendez’s military uniform.

  Then he opened his beak.

  “PURGE! TOTAL PURGE!” he screamed with horrifying enthusiasm.

  “REMOVE THE OLD! THE NEW RULES!”

  The air froze.

  Mendez stopped walking. His eyebrow rose slowly.

  Father stood rigid, his face a stone mask.

  Eleanor smiled proudly.

  “He said ‘purge’! That means cleaning, right? Like when Mom tells us to clean our room?”

  I stepped forward, my mind racing.

  “He hears the servants talking,” I said quickly, my voice too high. “They’re always talking about cleaning things.”

  Mendez stared at the bird, then at me. A thin smile appeared.

  “An interesting bird. Still holding on to memories… from the past.”

  “Just an old bird,” Father said flatly. “He’s been here a long time.”

  “Yes,” Mendez replied. “Sometimes old creatures should be… relocated. So they don’t disturb the new atmosphere.”

  A threat. Clear as day.

  “Oh, but he’s funny!” Eleanor protested. “Coco, say ‘Nice day’!”

  Coco chose chaos.

  “RESISTANCE! EXECUTE! EXECUTE!”

  I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.

  Isabella grabbed Eleanor’s arm.

  “Come on, El. Mother’s looking for us.”

  “But the bird—”

  “Now.”

  They left.

  Mendez stepped closer to the cage.

  “Impressive intelligence. But uncontrolled voices are dangerous—even from mindless creatures.” He turned to Father.

  “General, allow me to handle this. I know a suitable place for… rehabilitation.”

  I knew what that meant.

  “No,” Father said suddenly, his voice sharp.

  “The bird is innocent. He only repeats what he heard. Killing him won’t change the past.”

  “But it will prevent misinterpretation in the future,” Mendez pressed.

  “I decide,” Father replied.

  “The bird stays. But everyone will know he is an artifact, not a symbol. And the children will train him with… more appropriate material.”

  He looked at me.

  “Isn’t that right, Mateo?”

  I nodded quickly.

  “Yes, Father. I’ll teach him poetry. Or multiplication tables.”

  Mendez studied us, then nodded.

  “As you command, General. Still, living memories sometimes need stronger cages.”

  He turned and left.

  Father and I stood alone before the cage. Coco was silent now, as if he finally understood.

  “What exactly have you been teaching him?” Father asked quietly.

  “To be quiet,” I said. “He’s a stubborn student.”

  Father made a sound halfway between a sigh and a chuckle.

  “Like most creatures in this country.” He stared at the bird.

  “He reminds me of someone. The former president. Same voice.”

  “Is that dangerous?”

  “Everything is dangerous now, Mateo. Even old birds.”

  He walked away, then stopped.

  “Train him. Make him useful. Or at least… not lethal.”

  Why were there always unwanted variables?

  ***

  The next day, Coco’s training became my personal covert operation.

  I realized my mistake. Poetry meant nothing to a bird.

  I needed something that turned him into an asset, not a liability.

  I tried the national anthem. If he could sing it correctly, he’d be seen as patriotic.

  Coco refused. Too complex.

  Then I had a ridiculous idea: teach him a foreign language.

  If he spoke in a language few people understood—English, for example—his shouting would no longer be politically dangerous. He’d be a curiosity, not a threat.

  I brought a basic English phrasebook.

  “Hello,” I said clearly.

  Coco eyed the sunflower seeds.

  “Hello,” he repeated, thick with local accent.

  “Good bird.”

  “Good… bird.”

  “Sunshine.”

  “Sun… shine.”

  It worked.

  Within a week, Coco had basic English vocabulary:

  “Good morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Very nice.”

  One day, when a group of foreign delegates visited, I “accidentally” brought them to the greenhouse.

  “We have a unique resident here,” I said innocently. “He likes greeting guests.”

  “Hello! Welcome!” Coco squawked enthusiastically.

  The delegates were impressed.

  “Amazing! A bird that speaks English!”

  “Yes! Very nice!” Coco added, followed by a harmless whistle.

  The rumor spread. Coco became an unofficial mascot.

  Even Mendez, when hearing about it, merely shook his head. The threat had been neutralized—by turning it into a joke.

  Eleanor, of course, claimed credit.

  “I introduced him to everyone!”

  “Yes,” I said dryly. “And almost turned him into soup.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  Not all problems could be solved with sunflower seeds and deception.

  Some came in human form.

  Like my cousin, Diego.

  https://paypal.me/ArdanAuthor)