Reincarnated: Vive La France

The letter arrived folded crudely, sealed with twine and wax smudged at the edges.

The courier had no words, only a stiff salute and a single sentence.

"It was smuggled out from somewhere near Zaragoza. Sir, they said it was for you."

Moreau took it with little thought.

He received dozens of letters petitions, updates, threats, pleas.

He set it aside with his usual detachment and resumed reviewing the engineering reports from Perpignan.

The map beside him, inked with troop logistics disguised as civilian deployments, remained open.

His mind was calculating schedules, not emotions.

But something about the wax imperfect, like a child's attempt at formality drew his eyes again.

He picked up the letter and broke the seal.

The paper inside was worn.

The handwriting uneven, cramped at points and meandering at others.

The French was rudimentary, riddled with mistakes, but the intent bled through every word.

He began to read.

"Dear General Moreau,

I don't know if this will even reach you.

I don't know if people like me can still ask things from men like you.

But I wanted to try.

My name is Mateo. I am 16. I live… no, I stay in a camp near Zaragoza. I don't call it home anymore. Nothing here is home since the war began.

They say you are the Lion. That you once walked through our country with your boots torn and your voice strong and that people followed you not because they had to, but because they believed in you.

My parents believed in you.

They fought for you. My mother was a nurse, my father worked with the engineers who came with you.

They told me the stories how you never ate until your men had eaten, how you stood in the rain during bombardments because your soldiers had no shelter, how you told people you were not here to save them, but to stand with them.

You stood with them once.

Why not now?

Why don't you come?

My parents died two months ago. They were hiding near Teruel.

Franco's men found the place. They didn't even ask questions. They just fired.

I buried them myself. No coffin. Just dirt and stones and my hands.

There was no one else left.

The other people here say the Lion has forgotten us.

They say France is rich now, rebuilding, building roads and radios and fancy planes.

That you've become head of state and have no time for Spanish children.

Is that true?

Have you forgotten your promise?

You said this once in a speech (my father wrote it down).

"We may leave Spain's soil, but never her people."

Did you mean that? Or were those just words?

I don't know how long I'll be alive. I don't even know if this letter will be read. But I had to ask you.

When will the pain stop?

When will the men who killed my family be afraid again?

When will the Lion roar?

If you do read this, I am sorry it is messy. I never finished school.

There are holes in my socks. I haven't had milk in four months.

I dream of my parents sometimes, and they are smiling.

Then I wake up and they're not here.

They died believing in you.

Please don't let that be in vain.

Please come back.

If you still remember Spain, remember her like I do.

Your friend (I hope), Mateo"

Moreau's fingers froze on the last line.

He stared at the page, the boy's scrawled handwriting trembling on the thin paper.

The ink had smudges, tears? Water damage?

It didn't matter.

His chest tightened in a way that no battlefield, no political crisis, no near-death ambush had ever accomplished.

He sat there, unmoving, as the dusk outside dimmed the map, but he didn't light the lamp.

Finally, he rose without a word, left his office, and walked briskly down the corridor.

He didn't call a secretary.

Didn't schedule anything.

He opened the door to Paul Reynaud's quarters and stepped in without knocking.

Reynaud looked up, startled. "Moreau?"

Moreau held out the letter, his eyes unreadable. "Read this."

Reynaud accepted it silently.

As he read, the seconds turned heavy.

The words pulled down his shoulders, line by line.

When he reached the end, he lowered the paper, his fingers still tight around its edges.

Moreau's voice was low, but urgent.

"Say something."

Reynaud didn't look up at first.

Then he did, his eyes steady, voice ironed with truth.

"The Moreau I knew… was someone who saw this war coming before anyone else. Someone who warned of Spain in 1934 when others mocked him. Someone who would've taken a bullet for that boy's parents without hesitation."

He set the letter on the desk between them.

"And now? Now you sit in an office, managing deployments like bank accounts. You're calculating roads while children bury their dead. You've convinced yourself that gradual is safer than righteous."

Moreau didn't respond.

His mouth opened once, then closed.

Reynaud leaned forward.

"You want to be remembered as the man who rebuilt France? Or the man who let Spain fall so neatly it was forgotten?"

Silence fell again.

Then, very softly, Reynaud said, "These people who wait for you… their hope is not policy. It is life. And if you break it, Moreau, it won't just be their spirits that die."

He leaned back. "That's on you."

Moreau stood still.

Then slowly, deliberately, he reached for the letter again.

He folded it once, carefully, as if the edges might crack.

Then, in a voice clearer than before, he said, "Thank you, Renaud."

Reynaud looked at him.

Moreau smiled, bitter and grateful at once.

"Not for the lecture. For the reminder."

Reynaud nodded once. "It wasn't me. That letter..."

"I know," Moreau said.

He walked to the door. "Stay. I need to speak with someone."

He stepped into the hallway and turned toward his command office.

The guards at the door stiffened as he passed.

Inside, he dropped the letter on his desk, then turned toward the window.

For ten minutes, he said nothing.

Then, he asked the people outside.

"Send in General Gamelin. Now."

A few minutes later, the tall figure of France's army chief entered.

He removed his cap and stood at attention.

Moreau didn't offer him a seat.

"Gamelin," he said, "I was wrong."

The general said nothing.

"I thought caution would preserve our gains. That waiting would strengthen our position. That peace could be planned."

He turned.

"But justice cannot be delayed. Not one more day."

He walked slowly to the wall where a large map of Europe was pinned.

He pressed his hand against Spain.

"No more covert support. No more dual-use excuses. No more humanitarian-only deployments."

He looked Gamelin in the eye.

"We send troops."

Gamelin's mouth opened. "Sir, we haven't completed..."

"I know what we haven't done," Moreau cut him off. "But if we wait for perfect, we'll bury thousands more under calculations."

He stepped back.

"I want the first units deployed within the week. We start with Zaragoza and Madrid corridors. Full coordination with Republican remnants. I want armored regiments moving. Air support readied. Medics, engineers, signals teams. We treat this like defense, not charity."

Gamelin nodded slowly.

"Do we inform Parliament?"

Moreau's eyes were steel.

"I will inform the whole country. We will go in full troops and liberate Spain."

He sat at his desk, pulling the letter back in front of him.

As Gamelin turned to leave, Moreau's voice followed him.

"And tell the world, General. The Lion returns."

The history as we know it, changed forever.

All because of a letter.