"Flor de Abril"
(Partially based from the song "Depois do Adeus")
I
Lisbon, early April 1974
Pablo had asked himself a hundred times who he was.
A soldier, yes.
But more than that?
He wasn’t sure anymore.
The uniform he wore had begun to feel like a shackle, not just on his body, but on his very soul. He had been trained to obey, to follow orders without hesitation. Yet lately, the weight of his actions felt unbearable. In the stillness of the barracks, when the others talked of loyalty and duty, he found himself questioning everything — not just his place in the military, but his place in the world.
That was when he met Astrid.
Astrid was unlike anyone he had ever known. A woman who lived between the lines of poetry, philosophy, and revolution. She worked at a small bookshop near the Convento do Carmo, an intimate space that felt more like a refuge than a place of commerce. The smell of old paper and ink, mingling with the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee from the shop’s corner, seemed to pull him in whenever he walked by.
It was a rainy afternoon when they first spoke. She was standing at a tram stop, holding a pile of books as though they were more precious than gold, while the rain soaked her clothes. Pablo had been walking by, lost in thought, when he noticed her — drenched, but smiling softly as though the rain didn’t bother her.
Without thinking, he offered her his coat. She glanced at it, then at him, before shaking her head gently.
“You’re kind,” she said, her voice soft but strong, “but I’ve weathered worse storms.”
It was an innocent remark, but one that stayed with him long after the rain had stopped. She didn’t just survive; she thrived in the storm.
They began meeting regularly at Café A Brasileira, a popular spot where the city’s intellectuals gathered, their conversations spilling out into the streets. At first, their meetings felt accidental, as though fate had a hand in them. But soon, it became routine, and Pablo found himself longing for the sound of her voice, the sharpness of her wit, the way she could speak about freedom and injustice as if they were one and the same.
Astrid spoke of change often, knowing after the long years of dictatorship, of the people’s silent suffering. She spoke of Portugal’s future, of what they could be if only they dared to break free from the chains that had bound them for so long. But Pablo spoke little of his own role. He had been part of the MFA, the Military Revolutionary Movement that had quietly been planning the coup for months.
Though they grew closer, he never told her the truth — that the revolution, the change she longed for, was in part his doing. He feared her disappointment. But there was something in the way she looked at him, as though she already knew.
One evening, as they walked along the Tejo, the river quietly reflecting the dimming sky, she turned to him and asked, “Do you believe this country can be free?”
Pablo hesitated. His heart felt heavy. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, “but I hope so.”
“But you’re doing something,” she replied, her gaze unwavering. “I can feel it.”
He kissed her then, not as an answer to her question, but as a way to quiet the turmoil inside him. But even in her kiss, he felt the weight of the truth pressing against him.
II
April 23, 1974
The night was quiet, the air still. Lisbon’s streets, often filled with the hum of trams and the bustle of late-night conversations, now seemed to hold their breath. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver light across the city, bathing it in a soft, ethereal glow. Inside the small apartment that Pablo had come to call home for the past few months, the only sound was the gentle rhythm of their breathing.
Astrid lay beside him, her head resting against his chest. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breath, warm and steady, matching his own. The scent of her hair, like wildflowers after a spring rain, lingered in the air. Her skin was soft beneath his fingers, her body curled into his in the familiar comfort of their shared intimacy. The weight of the world seemed to vanish in this moment, as if time itself had momentarily frozen.
But even in this silence, Pablo could feel the weight of the coming storm pressing down on him. He had been waiting for this night — the night when everything would change. His heart pounded not just from the closeness of her body, but from the knowledge of the choice that lay ahead. The revolution was coming. The mission was clear. And yet, as he held her, he wondered how much he could truly leave behind.
“I had a dream,” Astrid whispered, breaking the quiet. Her voice was soft, but there was an edge of sadness in it, as though the words were pulled from a place of deep vulnerability. “That you left, and I stayed. And when you came back, we had become strangers.”
Pablo’s chest tightened at the thought. He had never heard her speak like this before. Her words felt like a weight pressing down on him, like a secret truth that had been buried deep in his heart, one he hadn’t wanted to confront. He tightened his arms around her, pulling her closer, as if trying to hold onto this fleeting moment of peace before the chaos of the next few days.
“I’ll never leave you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew they weren’t entirely true. Not in the way she meant. The revolution was already in motion. He was part of something much larger than himself now. And when it was over, he feared it would change everything. It would change them. It had to.
The night before, Pablo had received the final orders: the coup would begin at midnight. The signal would be the first notes of the song “E Depois do Adeus” playing on the radio — a symbol of resistance, of hope, of the freedom they had all been waiting for. At the first sound of those notes, he and his comrades would move quickly, seizing key positions in the city — the airport, the radio stations, the military barracks. They would carry their gun- only to see people beside them carrying flowers. Carnations, the symbol of peace and revolution. It would be a bloodless coup, a revolution not born of hatred, but of the quiet, determined will to break free from the chains that had bound the country for so long.
But as he held Astrid in his arms, he felt a deep sorrow creeping into his heart. He was not just fighting for a better future for Portugal. He was fighting for her, for the life they had begun to build together, a life that had been born in the shadow of a repressive regime. He was fighting to give her the freedom to live without fear, to speak her mind without looking over her shoulder. But he knew this fight would come at a cost. The revolution, for all its promise, would leave scars. And one of those scars might very well be the one that came between them.
“Partir é morrer,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, almost a whisper. “Leaving is dying a little.”
Her words echoed in the silence of the room, like the soft tolling of a distant bell. Pablo’s heart clenched at the truth of them. He had heard it before — in books, in the speeches of revolutionaries, in the quiet conversations of the people who had suffered under the dictatorship for so long. But hearing it from her, hearing it in this moment, made it feel all the more real.
Astrid was right. Leaving would mean leaving behind not just a part of himself, but a part of her, too. It would mean stepping into a world where they would be changed forever, where the love they had built — tentative, fragile, but real — would be torn apart and rebuilt in ways neither of them could predict. She had already seen it. She had already felt it. She knew, in the depths of her soul, what the revolution would cost.
Pablo brushed a strand of her hair away from her face, his fingers trembling slightly. He didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to believe that leaving her, even for a noble cause, would change everything. But the truth was undeniable. The revolution would demand sacrifices. It would demand more from him than he had ever been willing to give.
“I’ll come back,” he promised, though his words felt hollow even as he said them. He wanted to believe them. He wanted to believe that he would return to her, that they would pick up where they left off, that the world would return to its rightful balance and they could be together again. But deep down, he knew better. He had already made the decision. He had already crossed the line.
This night would be the last time they were truly together, the last time they could hold each other without fear, without the weight of history pressing down on them.
“Promise me something,” Astrid said, her voice breaking through his thoughts.
“Anything,” Pablo replied, his voice thick with emotion.
“Promise me that when the revolution is over, when everything is finished, we will find each other again. No matter what happens, no matter where we are, we will find our way back to each other.”
Pablo hesitated, his mind swirling with the uncertainty of the future. He wanted to promise her that, to give her the comfort of those words, but the truth was that he wasn’t sure he would survive the coming days. He wasn’t sure if they would ever have the chance to find each other again.
But in that moment, he made a decision. He pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I promise,” he whispered, though even as he spoke, he knew that promises were fragile things. The world had a way of shattering even the strongest ones.
They lay together in silence after that, their bodies entwined, as the clock ticked toward midnight. The weight of the coming revolution pressed heavily on them both, but for a few fleeting moments, it was just the two of them — two souls caught in the web of history, bound by love and the fragile hope of a future that had yet to be written.
And as the first notes of “E Depois do Adeus” began to play on the radio, they both knew that the moment had come. The world outside was about to change. And so were they.
III
April 25, 1974
The dawn broke cold, the first light of morning creeping slowly over the city of Lisbon. The streets, usually filled with the hum of life, lay eerily still. The usual sounds — the cries of street vendors, the clattering of trams, the chatter of workers and families preparing for their day — were absent. Instead, the air seemed to hold its breath, as if the city itself were waiting for something to happen. The sun’s pale fingers stretched across the rooftops, casting long shadows along the cobbled streets. It was as if time had slowed, holding on to that fragile moment between the night and the day — a moment that would mark the end of an era.
Pablo and his fellow officers moved swiftly, their steps purposeful, their faces set with the quiet determination of men who knew that history was about to unfold in ways that would change everything. The plan had been set for months, each movement, each action meticulously timed. The signal was simple — a song, played on the radio, the familiar and defiant notes of “E Depois do Adeus” and "Grandola Vila Morena", songs that had become a symbol of the resistance. The message was clear: freedom had arrived.
Pablo felt the weight of it all, pressing on him like a physical force. He had never imagined that it would feel this heavy. There was no turning back now. His hands, usually steady, now trembled slightly as he held the radio to his ear, waiting for the first sounds to echo out into the morning air. He could hear the low hum of the transmission, the static that preceded the moment of change. And then, the first notes of the song began to play, cutting through the stillness of the early hour.
It was as if the music itself was a call to arms, not with violence, but with hope. The soldiers who had gathered in their positions — once instruments of the regime — began to move. Some took their places at the strategic points, ready to follow through with the plan. But others, eyes wide and faces taut with the weight of a country’s pain, hesitated. And then, something incredible happened. The people — the ordinary citizens, the ones who had lived their lives in quiet suffering under the regime — were already moving, too. They had heard the song. They knew what it meant. It wasn’t just a signal to the soldiers; it was a signal to them as well.
And so, the revolution began — not with the clash of weapons, not with the roar of gunfire, but with flowers.
Carnations — simple, humble flowers — were thrust into the barrels of rifles. Soldiers who had once feared defying the regime looked at the flowers, then at the people, and in a moment of clarity, they stepped aside. Some soldiers, their faces weathered with years of obedience and regret, joined the crowds, their arms raised in solidarity, their rifles now discarded. The streets of Lisbon filled with the sound of people singing, shouting, weeping, laughing — emotions unburdened for the first time in so long. The air was thick with the scent of carnations, the scent of something new, something alive, something full of promise.
The revolution was unfolding before him, and yet, despite the swelling tide of joy and triumph, Pablo’s heart felt tight with unease. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Amidst the crowd, amidst the cries of victory and the weight of history shifting in the air, he couldn’t find her.
Astrid.
Her absence was like a dark cloud hanging over him, threatening to overshadow the brightness of the moment. He had promised her he would return, that he would find her again. But now, as he moved through the streets, the crowds swelling around him, he began to fear that promise was already broken.
The revolution had come, but it had also taken something from him.
The night before, as they lay together, Astrid had been so sure, so resolute. Her voice had echoed in his mind, still haunting him — “Promise me that when the revolution is over, when everything is finished, we will find each other again.” He had promised her. He had made the promise, but now it felt like a cruel joke.
His feet carried him through the streets, a part of him driven by the same desire for freedom that fueled the masses, but another part of him, the part that had truly loved her, was pulling him in a different direction. The revolution was happening, but she wasn’t there to see it. She wasn’t there to experience the joy of the city finally breathing free.
By mid-afternoon, the city had transformed. Those who defend the past regime had surrendered, the last pockets of resistance crushed under the weight of the people’s demand for change. The government that had reigned for decades had crumbled. It was a bloodless coup. It was beautiful.
But it was also incomplete.
Pablo knew he had to find her. He had to know where she was, if she was safe, if she had been caught up in the chaos of it all. He ran toward the bookshop where they had spent so many hours talking, planning, dreaming of a future that no longer seemed so far away.
But when he arrived, the door was locked. He knocked, but there was no answer. His breath caught in his chest. The windows, once filled with the warm light of late afternoons, were dark. Inside, everything was still. He peered through the cracks in the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her — the familiar sight of her behind the counter, the books stacked high, the warm smile that had made him feel like there was still beauty in a broken world.
But the shelves were empty. The bookshop that had once felt like a safe haven, a place of hope in a time of despair, was now hollow, a shell of its former self. It was as if she had disappeared along with the regime, vanishing into the ether like a memory too precious to hold onto.
His heart sank, and for the first time that day, he felt the weight of the revolution not as triumph, but as loss.
Where was she?
The revolution had come, and the world had changed. But what of the promises they had made? What of the love they had shared?
The streets of Lisbon were filled with people celebrating, with laughter and music, with the promise of a new beginning. But for Pablo, that promise was incomplete without her.
He searched the city for days. He spoke to friends, to revolutionaries, to anyone who might have seen her. He walked the alleys, sat in the cafés where they had once shared whispered conversations. But she was gone. No one had seen her. No one knew where she had gone. It was as if the revolution had taken her as well.
And so, Pablo was left standing in the midst of the city that had risen up against its oppressors, surrounded by the jubilant crowds, but with an emptiness in his chest that no amount of victory could fill.
IV
Weeks Later
The city had settled into its new rhythm, the weight of its past finally beginning to lift, though the scars still remained, etched into the minds of those who had lived through the years of darkness. But for Pablo, the world around him felt heavier than ever. The revolution had come, and the world had changed. Yet, there was a void within him — a wound that no amount of political freedom or social transformation could heal.
Through a friend in the underground, Pablo learned the truth. The truth about Astrid.
She had been a part of the resistance. Not the way he had imagined — not as someone who had simply stood by, who had passively supported from the sidelines. No, she had been deeply involved. Her bookshop, the very place where he had first met her, where they had shared dreams and whispered promises, had been a cover. A façade. Beneath the shelves of carefully curated literature and the soft, warm light of the lamps, there had been something more.
She had been carrying messages. Documents. Plans. Names of those who had risked their lives to challenge the regime. She had been a vital part of the network, her role more critical than he could ever have known. Every day, as she had smiled at customers, recommended books, and laughed softly with him, she had been carrying the weight of a nation’s rebellion in her bags, in her heart.
Pablo had never suspected. He had never known. She had kept it hidden — even from him. The betrayal, or perhaps the love, had been in the silence. Perhaps she hadn’t trusted him, or perhaps she had loved him so deeply that she had kept him out of the danger she lived with every day. A danger that had been both her greatest strength and the deepest burden she had carried.
And now, in the wake of the revolution, Pablo felt the sharp sting of that silence. He had never truly known her. He had only known the parts of her that she had allowed him to see. But there were layers, hidden behind her laughter, her books, her eyes. Layers that had been a part of the resistance, of a fight she had chosen to face alone.
For days, Pablo walked the city. He asked anyone who might have known her, anyone who might have seen her after the dust of revolution had settled. He visited the old cafés where they had shared countless moments, the riverside benches where they had sat, their hands intertwined, talking of a future they both thought was assured. He searched the streets, the corners of the city where they had once found solace. He wandered through the parks, beneath the flowering trees, the scent of blossoms heavy in the air, but there was no trace of her. No sign that the woman he had loved — the woman who had carried the weight of revolution in her heart — had ever existed.
Lisbon had changed. The dictatorship was a distant memory, fading into the past like a bad dream. The sound of music filled the air, the kind that once had been forbidden, now echoing freely from the radios and in the hearts of the people. The streets were no longer filled with whispers and fear, but with song and laughter. The revolution had succeeded, and the world had opened up, but it felt like a world she was no longer a part of.
The bookshop near Convento do Carmo — the one that had been their meeting place, their sanctuary — was still there. But now, it was run by a young woman, someone who didn’t know the history of the place, or the stories that had been told within its walls. The shelves were still lined with the same books, the same dusty pages, but everything had changed. Everything except the memory of Astrid.
Behind the counter, a faded photograph caught Pablo’s eye. It was a picture of Astrid, smiling brightly, her arms filled with books, her face framed by the soft light of the shop. She was so alive in that photo, so full of promise and hope. But now, that hope felt distant, like a dream fading in the early morning mist.
Pablo never told the young woman who he was. He didn’t need to. He didn’t want to disturb the illusion that the place still held for him. He simply sat in the corner, ordering coffee, letting the bittersweet aroma fill the air around him. He read Neruda, though the words no longer carried the same meaning they once had. They felt like ghosts now, echoes of things he had lost.
In the quiet of the café, as the sun filtered through the windows and the sound of the city flowed in around him, he could feel her presence. It wasn’t tangible. It wasn’t something he could hold. But it was there, in the corners of the room, in the soft turn of a page, in the stillness of the air. She was still with him, even though she wasn’t.
The revolution had given him freedom. It had given the people of Lisbon something they had longed for. A future without fear. A future without oppression. It had given them life.
But it had also taken something from him — something irreplaceable. Something that no amount of political change could ever return.
He thought about the way she had come into his life, like a sudden bloom in the middle of winter, vibrant and full of life. She had come in bloom, a bright light in a dark world, and he had picked her too soon. He had loved her without fully understanding the depth of that love, without seeing the full weight of what she carried.
He had given her nothing — nothing compared to what she had given him. She had risked everything. She had fought for freedom, for a future that he could only dream of, and yet, in the end, he had been a passive participant. He had stood by, unaware of the danger, unaware of the sacrifice she had made.
Love, Pablo realized, was a paradox. It was both winning and losing. It was the sweetest joy and the deepest sorrow. And in the end, he had lost her. Not because she had left him, but because he had never truly known her. He had never understood the weight of her love, the depths of her sacrifice.
But in that loss, something had changed within him. He had been reborn. The revolution, as much as it had taken from him, had also given him something else — a new understanding of what it meant to love, to fight, to sacrifice. It had shown him the importance of living with integrity, of choosing something greater than oneself, even when the cost was unbearable.
And so, he continued to walk the city, a city that was no longer the same, and neither was he. He would never forget her, never forget the way she had made him feel alive. But he would also never forget the lessons she had taught him. That love was not just about possession, not about clinging to something or someone. It was about freedom, about choice, about sacrifice.
In the quiet of the café, in the smell of old pages, in the soft bloom of April flowers, he felt her presence again. Though she was gone, she had left behind a legacy in him. The revolution had come, and he had lost her. But through that loss, he had gained something even more precious: the understanding that love, real love, was the force that moved the world.
***
Reunion: A Love Reborn
Lisbon, Spring 1978
The city had changed, but Pablo hadn’t.
The streets that once seemed so alive with the pulse of revolution, the air now filled with the vibrant sounds of freedom and possibility, were no longer the same. The world around him was unrecognizable in some ways. The revolution had come and gone, leaving behind a Lisbon that was no longer weighed down by the shadows of dictatorship. People laughed, sang, and moved through the city without fear, but for Pablo, there was still a quiet yearning deep in his chest — a longing he couldn’t shake.
He had spent years searching for her, but it had been a search that grew quieter with each passing day. His heart had once been set on finding her — Astrid. The woman who had been both his everything and his lost dream. She had vanished into the fog of history, and with her disappearance, a piece of him had gone, too.
Pablo had searched tirelessly. He had visited the old bookshop near Convento do Carmo, retracing the steps of their first meeting, the places they had laughed and talked about their hopes for a future that now seemed so distant. He had walked the familiar streets, asking anyone who might know her, but no one had. The years wore on, and the answers grew fewer, the questions more painful. But in the silence, in the absence of her, he had learned to carry on. He had built a new life, one that fit the new Lisbon — one that was free, vibrant, and full of life. But still, there was that ache, that emptiness that no revolution, no victory, could fill.
He had given up on ever seeing her again. Yet, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the feeling that somehow, in some way, she might be out there. That one day, their paths would cross again. But as time passed, even that hope began to fade.
Then, one quiet afternoon, everything changed.
Pablo entered Café A Brasileira, a place he often visited to sit, to think, to remember. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, and the low murmur of conversation filled the space. The café was bustling, as usual, with people coming and going, laughing and sharing stories. He found a seat by the window, a familiar spot where he could watch the world go by, where he could let the city’s rhythm lull him into a rare peace.
He wasn’t expecting anything, not really. He had long since accepted that the world had moved on, and so had he. But then, as if the world had shifted its course, he saw her.
She stood across the room, her figure framed by the soft light filtering through the window. At first, it was like a mirage, a trick of the light. But no — it was her. Astrid. She hadn’t changed. At least, not in the ways that mattered. Her blue dress was the same one she had worn all those years ago. Her hair, though longer now, still cascaded in soft waves around her shoulders, the same deep brown. She was older, her face marked by time, but she was still the woman he had loved, the woman who had haunted his every thought.
When their eyes met, everything else in the café seemed to fade away. The noise, the movement, the chatter — it all dissolved. For a moment, time stopped, and it was just the two of them, standing in that quiet space, both uncertain, both searching for something that had been lost.
She didn’t smile immediately. She just stood there, staring at him, her eyes searching for something, perhaps for confirmation that he was real. That this moment was real. And then, slowly, as though the weight of years had pressed down on her, she began to walk toward him.
Pablo stood up, his heart pounding in his chest. He had imagined this moment a thousand times, but now that it was here, words seemed inadequate. What could he say? What could ever be enough after everything that had passed?
“Você ainda espera por mim?” she asked, her voice a melody that carried with it the weight of all the unspoken things between them. “Do you still wait for me?”
Pablo’s throat tightened. He nodded, his voice failing him. How could he explain the years of searching, of longing? How could he convey the ache that had lived in him all this time? All he could do was nod, the words trapped somewhere deep inside him.
She sat down across from him, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other, silently measuring the distance between them — the time that had passed, the things that had changed, the things that hadn’t.
“You disappeared,” Pablo finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “I searched for you everywhere. I couldn’t find you.”
Astrid’s eyes softened, a shadow of sadness crossing her face. “I had to go,” she said quietly. “There were things I couldn’t share. Not then. Not with you.”
Pablo shook his head, the frustration of all those years of unanswered questions coming to the surface. “But why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you trust me enough to let me in?”
“I couldn’t risk it,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t risk losing you, not when I knew what was coming. The revolution. The danger. The fight. I had my part to play, and you had yours. I couldn’t pull you into that world.”
“But I would have understood,” he said, his heart breaking with the unspoken truth that had hovered between them for so long. “I would’ve been with you. Always.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away before they could fall. “I didn’t know if I could ever come back, Pablo. I didn’t know if I could face you again, knowing everything I had seen, everything I had done. But when the city began to change, when I felt the pulse of a new Lisbon, I knew I had to find you. I had to see you again.”
“Why now?” Pablo asked, his heart racing, each beat pulling him deeper into the moment.
She smiled, a small, bittersweet smile, and for a moment, she seemed to let go of the weight of the past. “Because, after all the revolutions — after all the victories and the losses — I realized something. Love is not just about winning or losing. It’s about remembering. And I remember you, Pablo. I remember us.”
Pablo reached across the table, his hand trembling slightly as he took hers in his. For a long moment, they simply held each other’s hand, the warmth of her touch anchoring him in a way that he hadn’t known he needed. “You came back to me in bloom,” he whispered, the words coming back to him like a forgotten song.
Astrid squeezed his hand gently, her eyes filled with a quiet hope. “And I hope I can stay. In the bloom of this new world, in this new Lisbon, I hope we can start again.”
Pablo didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. He just held her hand, feeling the weight of everything that had passed, the years of waiting, the pain, the love — and now, the chance to begin again. In that moment, he understood. Love wasn’t about perfect timing. It wasn’t about waiting for everything to fall into place. It was about finding someone who could carry your heart, even when it seemed lost, even when the world seemed to be falling apart. And then, when you were lucky enough, you could let the world come together again, piece by piece.
“Astrid,” he said, finally finding the words he had needed all this time. “I’ll wait for you again. Always.”
Her smile, though small, was full of all the things that had been lost and found between them. And for the first time in years, Pablo felt at peace. The revolution had come and gone. The city had transformed, but so had they. And in the quiet of that reunion, they both knew that the revolution wasn’t just in the streets. It was in them. It was in the love they had lost and found again.
And that was the greatest victory of all.
