The airplane cut through the endless sea of clouds, carrying Mateo and his mother toward a new life.
Mateo pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the world stretch far below — rivers like silver threads, towns like tiny scattered toys, mountains rising like frozen waves.It was the first time he had ever left Argentina, and the excitement and nervousness swirled in his chest like a storm.
His mother sat beside him, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her expression calm but distant.Mateo knew she was thinking about his father — about how different this journey might have been if he were still with them.He reached out and gently squeezed her hand.She smiled at him, grateful, and for a while, they simply sat in silence, two hearts stitched together by shared loss and hope.
The hours blurred into one another until, finally, the captain's voice crackled over the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into Munich. Local time is 7:30 a.m., and the weather is clear, with a temperature of 3 degrees Celsius."
Mateo's heart pounded faster.
Munich.
A new world awaited just beyond the clouds.
When they stepped off the plane, a gust of cold air bit at Mateo's cheeks.He shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around him, but his wide eyes drank in everything — the gleaming airport, the efficient crowds, the clean, crisp winter air.
They passed through customs quickly, and then, as they pushed their luggage cart toward the arrivals hall, Mateo spotted them.
An older couple, waving excitedly — a tall man with silver hair neatly combed back, and a woman with soft gray curls framing a face lined with both kindness and strength.They both wore heavy coats and scarves, and in their hands they carried a small sign that read: "Willkommen, Helena und Mateo!"
Mateo felt a lump rise in his throat.
His mother's face broke into a genuine smile as she rushed forward into the arms of the older woman — her mother — who embraced her tightly, whispering in rapid German.
The man clapped Mateo warmly on the shoulder, his blue eyes sparkling with emotion.
"You must be Mateo," he said in heavily accented Spanish, his voice rich and warm. "Mein Junge... my boy."
Mateo nodded shyly. "Sí... Mateo."
His grandmother joined them, bending down to pull him into a soft, fierce hug.
"You look just like your mother," she said with a smile, then added in slower Spanish, "and your father... he would be so proud."
Mateo's chest tightened, but he managed a small smile.
They loaded the luggage into a sleek black car and pulled out onto the wide, orderly streets of Munich.Mateo stared out the window, marveling at the clean parks, the towering buildings, the organized rush of life so different from the chaotic energy of Buenos Aires.
It didn't feel like home yet — but it didn't feel hostile either.It felt like... possibility.
As they drove, his grandfather — Friedrich — pointed out landmarks in a mix of Spanish and German: the tall spires of old churches, the glittering glass towers, the snowy fields at the city's edge.His grandmother — Anneliese — handed him a small, warm pastry wrapped in paper.
"Lebkuchen," she said with a wink. "Sweet. For strength."
Mateo bit into it, surprised by the rich, spiced flavor, and for a moment, he simply enjoyed the comfort of family, of being welcomed, of feeling that maybe — just maybe — this could become a home too.
When they finally pulled into a quiet neighborhood lined with tidy houses and trees dusted with snow, Mateo's grandfather turned around in his seat.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we take you to see something special."
Mateo raised an eyebrow. "Special?"
His grandfather only smiled, a twinkle in his eye.
"You'll see, Junge. You'll see."