The sound of the radio was like a metallic insect trapped inside a box, buzzing with the wrong vibration.

  Normally, the radio in the family sitting room broadcast nothing but marching band music or endlessly repeated official announcements—

  “Curfew remains in effect,”

  “Obey authority,”

  “Cleanliness is a national duty.”

  But this morning, the frequency was interrupted.

  I was trying to teach Eleanor how to fold a paper boat that could actually float in a basin of water instead of flipping over and sinking within two seconds.

  A futile effort—but still better than thinking about gunshots on the roof or the blank faces of the guards.

  Then the propaganda music cut out.

  It was replaced by a raw, unfiltered voice, full of static, background hum, and distant shouting behind it.

  “…oppressed people! The puppet regime of Mendez has merely changed masters—it has not freed the slaves! This system is what destroys us! A corrupt system that elevates a handful of elites while trampling everyone else!”

  Eleanor looked up.

  “Is that an angry person talking, big brother?”

  “Seems like it,” I said, setting the paper folds aside.

  The voice continued, burning with a trained kind of rage. Not a wild scream, but a heated oration.

  “We, the People’s Liberation Movement, under the leadership of Sergeant Javier, declare this: we do not demand seats at this rotten table! We demand that the table itself be smashed! We do not ask for reform! We demand a true revolution!”

  Isabella, reading in the corner, slowly closed her book. Mother stopped her embroidery. The air in the room changed.

  This wasn’t just counter-propaganda.

  This was different.

  Then that sentence came.

  “Therefore, our goal is not a change of government! Our ultimate objective is… to erase the system itself!”

  The words hung in the air—heavy and, to me, profoundly… nonsensical.

  Erase the system.

  The radio kept ranting about oppression, freedom, and returning sovereignty to the people.

  But my mind snagged on that phrase.

  it was as if Sergeant Javier had just announced plans to erase the concept of time or gravity.

  Eleanor stared at me. “What does ‘erase the system’ mean, big brother?”

  “A metaphor,” Isabella said quickly—but her eyes were on me, searching for confirmation.

  I shook my head almost imperceptibly.

  This wasn’t a metaphor. In that voice, there was literal conviction—and it was disturbing.

  Why are there so many troublemakers in this country?

  “But which system?” Eleanor pressed, tireless.

  I searched for words a six-year-old could understand—a child who believed birds could communicate telepathically.

  “Imagine this palace is a system,” I said. “There are rules: meal times, where you can play, who the guards are. Some people hate those rules so much that they say, ‘Let’s not just chase away the guards or change dinner time. Let’s destroy the palace completely, flatten it—and we’ll all live in tents on the rubble.’”

  Eleanor considered that.

  “But tents are cold. And there’s no Mother Rosa’s kitchen. And Coco wouldn’t have a cage.”

  “Exactly, no cage. But also no roof when it rains.”

  The radio screeched, then died. The signal was cut. Cheerful marching music returned—wildly inappropriate.

  The room fell into a different silence. Not fear—philosophical confusion.

  Mother finally spoke. “They don’t know what they’re saying.”

  “Or they know exactly,” I replied softly. “And that’s what makes it frightening.”

  ***

  That day, Erase the System became a disease in my mind. Like an annoying song, the phrase looped endlessly, triggering uninvited chains of analysis.

  I sat in the small family library, staring at books I wasn’t reading. My mind was working.

  Erase the system.

  Let’s dissect it—because that was the only way to stay sane.

  First: Which system? From context—political, economic, social structures. Fine. So… abolish the state? Anarchy?

  But anarchy isn’t the absence of systems. It’s merely another system—chaotic, where rules are enforced by the strongest or the most ruthless.

  Do they realize that? Probably not. They see “the system” as a single machine, not a complex network of habits, laws, institutions, and human psychology.

  Second: How do you erase it? Through violence, of course. Destroy government buildings. Drive out bureaucrats. Burn records.

  But what happens after the smoke clears?

  Someone still has to distribute food. Someone has to decide who occupies abandoned homes. Someone has to resolve disputes when two people want the same water source.

  And—without realizing it—you’ve just created… a system. Primitive, unfair perhaps—but a system nonetheless.

  Third—and this amused me the most: Who erases it? Humans? Creatures who, across two lifetimes of observation, are system-manufacturing machines.

  We create systems for everything: kitchen queues, toy rotations, greetings, warfare. It’s in our DNA.

  We fear emptiness. Uncertainty.

  So a group of humans who swear to erase all systems will, almost reflexively, begin constructing a new one.

  And history whispered to me: systems born from total revolutions are often more rigid, more cruel, and more foolish than the ones they replace.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  It’s like trying to erase language by speaking. Or erase thought by thinking very hard about it.

  Absurd.

  And dangerous.

  Because those who believe they can erase systems are often the most enthusiastic—and the most blind—builders of monolithic replacements.

  Coco, now a permanent resident of the living room after the cage incident, chose that moment to contribute.

  “Chaos!” the parrot squawked dramatically. “Chaos theory!”

  I stared at him.

  “Where did you learn chaos theory?”

  “Radio. Documentary.” Coco nodded proudly.

  “Butterfly effect! Flap! Storm!”

  A cockatoo lecturing on chaos theory.

  The world was unraveling.

  “So tell me, Coco,” I said—more to myself than to him—

  “Is erasing systems like flapping wings and hoping for a beautiful storm, or just producing a lot of wind and bird droppings?”

  Coco tilted his head. “Bird poop. Definitely.”

  At least we agreed.

  ***

  Isabella approached during lunch. The soup was thin, the bread harder than usual. War economy, perhaps—or Mother Rosa saving supplies for something else.

  “You’re thinking about that radio speech,” she said. Not a question.

  “How could I not?” I tore the bread. “It’s like hearing someone shout they’ll erase time by smashing all the clocks. You can only ask, ‘Which clocks? And then what?’”

  “He’s just using rhetoric,” Isabella said pragmatically. “He needs a slogan.”

  “I know. But words become frameworks. And bad frameworks build fragile houses.” I sipped the soup.

  “If your enemy is ‘the system,’ then everyone inside the system becomes the enemy. Not just Mendez. It’s the postal worker following delivery rules. The teacher following a curriculum. It’s… Mother Rosa organizing meals according to palace tradition. When the enemy becomes abstract, the war becomes total. And total wars never end well for people who just want to eat soup in peace.”

  Isabella fell silent.

  “You think too far ahead, Mateo.”

  “That’s where my mind lives, sister. And from there, the view is terrifying.”

  Eleanor, busy constructing a “harbor” for her paper boats from an emptied soup bowl, looked up.

  “I don’t like today’s soup.”

  “Why?” Mother asked.

  “It tastes like… a bad system.”

  I choked on my water. Isabella turned away, hiding a smile. Mother sighed.

  “Eleanor, dear, systems don’t have taste.”

  “This one does,” Eleanor insisted. “It’s bland. Like plain water.”

  We all paused.

  Sometimes, from a child’s mouth… comes an odd truth.

  The soup was bland.

  Maybe erasing systems sounds appealing to people who only taste blandness and crave intensity—any intensity.

  ***

  In the afternoon, Mother Rosa came to tidy up. I noticed the way she set plates down—slightly harder than usual. Her jaw was tight.

  As she bent near me to collect paper scraps (mostly casualties of Eleanor’s naval paper experiments), her whisper was like a passing breeze.

  “That speech made those at the top nervous. Security tightened. Shift rotations changed.”

  “The channel…?” I asked without moving my lips.

  “Still alive. But quiet. Winds are bad for flying.”

  Meaning: the Coco plan was postponed. Mendez was alert. Anything unusual would draw suspicion.

  I nodded almost imperceptibly.

  So the erase the system speech had already had an effect. Mendez viewed it as a greater threat—justifying harsher measures.

  Javier might feel victorious, having rattled the enemy. But in the middle were people like us. Like Mother Rosa. Caught between the hammer of order and the anvil of chaos.

  Ironically, both Mendez and Javier sought control. Mendez through repression and rules. Javier through destruction of all rules—which would require equal repression to sustain the vacuum.

  Two sides of the same coin.

  And the people were the metal being forged between them.

  I felt like laughing. Or crying. The line blurred.

  ***

  That night, after Eleanor and Isabella slept, I sat with Mother in the dim living room. Only a small lamp glowed.

  “You’re worried about your father.”

  “And about us. And about the mad ideas floating in the air.”

  I sighed. “Mother—have you ever imagined… no rules at all? No state. No money. No hierarchy?”

  She thought quietly.

  “I imagine a beautiful garden. But even gardens need gardeners. And fences. Otherwise livestock trample the flowers.”

  “But gardeners can become butchers. And fences can become prisons.”

  “All things have two sides, Mateo. Absolute freedom is chaos. Absolute control is a prison. Better is…” She searched for words. “…a good gardener. One who knows when to prune, and when to let wildflowers grow.”

  The gardener metaphor. Father would have loved it.

  But our gardener was imprisoned, and our garden surrounded by people who wanted to burn everything and plant something new—or nothing at all.

  “People like Javier,” I said, “see a corrupt gardener and broken fences. Instead of fixing them, they want to burn the garden and say, ‘Nature will handle it.’ But nature is harsh, Mother. Not all flowers survive.”

  She studied me in the dim light, her face old and wise.

  “You have an old soul, Mateo. Sometimes it saddens me. You should worry about lessons and toys—not the collapse of social order.”

  “I did once. In another life.” The words slipped out.

  Silence.

  “What do you mean?”

  Damn it. I was exhausted. But there was no retreat.

  “I… have memories. Complete memories. As if I lived before. As an adult. In a similar—but different—world.”

  “Dreams. Illusions, perhaps.”

  I waited for fear. Doubt. Horror.

  She only observed me.

  “That explains many things.”

  “You… believe me?”

  “You are my son. Even as a baby, your eyes… weren’t baby eyes. You looked around like someone lost in a familiar place. The way you speak. Understand.” She inhaled. “I always knew there was more. I chose to see it as… a gift.”

  Relief flooded my chest.

  “I’m not insane.”

  “No. You just carry a burden you shouldn’t.” She took my hand. “Are those memories painful?”

  “Sometimes. Mostly boring. Not heroic.”

  She smiled faintly. “And now you’re here. A deposed general’s son. Listening to people talk about erasing systems. Quite an escalation.”

  I laughed weakly.

  “Yes. One could say that.”

  “So, Mateo of the other life—what’s your advice? About people who want to erase systems?”

  I thought about the history of my old world. The French Revolution. Bloody, then ending with Napoleon. The Russian Revolution. Bloody, then ending with Stalin. Even the war in my homeland...

  Promises of new humanity. New orders. And always—monsters returned, sometimes with new faces.

  “My advice,” I said slowly, “is never trust anyone who promises paradise by destroying everything. Paradise isn’t built on rubble. It’s built painfully, stone by stone, with irritating compromises and boring repairs. And it’s never perfect.”

  “Realistic.”

  “Cynicism, some say.”

  “Wisdom, others say.” She closed her eyes. “Your father tried boring repairs. Look where he is.”

  “Because Mendez prefers rubble. Easier to control—for a while.”

  We sat quietly. A secret revealed. The world didn’t end. It felt lighter.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Mother said at last. “But Mateo—don’t let knowledge from your other self erase who you are now. You’re still my son. You still need to laugh sometimes without analyzing why.”

  “I’ll try. But then Eleanor sings duets with Coco and I start thinking about musical evolution and—”

  “Yes, yes, I understand.” Her eyes sparkled. “Try harder. For me.”

  “I promise.”

  ***

  The next day, Erase the System still lingered—but differently. Mother accepted me. That was a security no political system could provide.

  As always, Eleanor cured excessive philosophy.

  “Big brother Mateo,” she said solemnly, “Coco and I decided we don’t like the bathing system. It’s oppressive.”

  “Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “Which bathing system?”

  “The one where Mother Rosa says ‘bath time’ and the water is sometimes too cold or too hot. It’s arbitrary! We want a free bathing system! Where we decide when and how!”

  “And how would that work?”

  “We’ll only bathe when it rains in the garden! Or when we accidentally fall into the fish pond!”

  “And soap?”

  “Soap is an instrument of oppression!” Coco squawked enthusiastically.

  “Down with soap!”

  I burst out laughing.

  Their tiny rebellion mirrored grand revolutions—rejecting structure without viable alternatives.

  “A rebellion,” I said. “But without bathing systems, you’ll both start to… bad smell. And then Mother Rosa will impose a far harsher quarantine system. Possibly involving vinegar.”

  Eleanor and Coco exchanged glances.

  “We’ll think about it,” Eleanor said gravely.

  “Power to the feathers!” Coco added.

  ***

  The fear remained.

  Javier’s speech had shifted politics. It gave Mendez an existential enemy.

  “See?” propaganda would whisper. “They don’t just want to overthrow me—they want to destroy everything you know! Only I can protect order from chaos.”

  And for many, fear of chaos outweighs hatred of oppression.

  I needed to communicate this. To the network. To Father, if possible.

  But how?

  Then, watching Coco peck a wooden toy, a truly insane idea emerged.

  Not using Coco as a physical courier.

  But as a coded messenger.

  They monitored us. They listened. But they might dismiss a bird’s chatter.

  What if Coco learned phrases? Word combinations that sounded like nonsense—but conveyed meaning to those who knew the key?

  “Northern wind, sunflowers wilt”—security tightened. “Moon over hills, knight runs”—Father alive, contact exists.

  Risky. But better than nothing.

  When Mother Rosa returned, I’d whisper the idea.

  Meanwhile, outside these walls, people seriously imagined a world without systems.

  A world that could only exist—in imagination or in graves.

  That night ended as usual: curfew, rotating guards, familiar siege.

  Before sleeping, Eleanor whispered,

  “I decided, big brother. Mother Rosa’s bathing system isn’t so bad. Warm water. Nice soap.”

  “Remarkable wisdom,” I said.

  “But the carrot system,” she added seriously, “that system must be abolished.”

  “We’ll see,” I said, patting her head.

  She slept smiling.

  I stared at the ceiling—thinking about systems, revolutions, gardeners, wildflowers.

  And a cockatoo who might become our greatest asset.

  The irony was thick enough to slice. And in that irony—perhaps—there was hope.

  Because if the world was absurd enough for a bird to become an information weapon, then maybe—just maybe—finding a path between terror and chaos wasn’t impossible.

  First, we had to survive longer. And to survive, we had to be smarter than those who wanted to destroy everything—and those who wanted to control everything.

  https://paypal.me/ArdanAuthor)