Monsters don’t just grow in silence. Sometimes they take root in the soft whispers of deceitful words, in the subtle seduction of comfortable speeches and in polished phrases that hide rusty blades. Micas didn’t know it yet, but on that quiet night, under the spectral light of the television flashing in a restless cadence, one of the many human abysses that history insists on repeating was being drawn.
The words, which at first meant nothing more than a background noise, quickly turned into verbal pins, inciting awkward, pointed questions that were almost indecent in their devastating simplicity: “Daddy, what is the far right?” A question thrown with the perverse innocence that only a child masters, capable of dismantling the false peace of a routine dinner.
Daddy, with his beard carefully trimmed, like someone trying to control the world through small details, felt his pulse quicken in his temples. He wasn’t ready to dissect the elegant cruelty of politics in front of such a clear-eyed son. But innocence never waits for permission, it invades us, brutal and gentle, demanding answers.