Fátima rises before dawn, as always. The cold of January in the Serra hasn't changed; the rituals of a Catholic life haven't changed; Portugal, it seems, hasn't changed much either. This is precisely what she wanted.
Mass at 8am is sparsely attended—the village shrinks each year—but Father Miguel speaks about family, tradition, the anchor of faith in uncertain times. Fátima finds comfort in the familiar words. The president, when he appears on television, speaks similarly: calm, measured, nothing radical. A gentleman. Like presidents should be.
The walk home takes her past the closed school—enrollment dropped below the minimum five years ago—and the health center that operates only twice weekly now. These aren't new problems. They weren't solved by Costa, won't be solved by Montenegro, probably won't be solved by anyone. The interior dies slowly. Fátima has made peace with this.
Coffee with her neighbors brings political talk. Dona Lurdes mentions Chega—her son in Viseu votes for them—with the same tone one might discuss weather: inevitable, ambient, neither celebrated nor condemned. "They say what many think," Lurdes observes. Fátima nods. Marques Mendes doesn't say those things, but he doesn't fight against them either. A middle path.
The afternoon news shows parliamentary debates. Chega is loud, as always. AD governs, as always. The president presides, as presidents do. There was a time—2026, the campaign—when everything felt urgent, existential. Now it's just normal. The crisis that wasn't, or the crisis so normalized it doesn't register as crisis.
Her sister visits for coffee. They discuss the usual: pensions (stable), health center (worse), village population (fewer). Fátima's grandson called from Luxembourg last week; he won't be back, probably ever. Portugal exports its young. This, too, is familiar.
Evening television shows Marques Mendes at a state function, shaking hands with European leaders. He looks comfortable, professional, unremarkable. Fátima voted for him in 2026—against Ventura, really, but she won't admit that. She wanted stability, someone who wouldn't embarrass the country, someone who spoke properly. She got what she wanted.
The news also mentions Chega's latest proposal: something about immigration, something about "Portuguese families first." The government hasn't adopted it. Hasn't rejected it either. The dance continues. Fátima doesn't follow the details. As long as her village is quiet, her pension arrives, her church remains open, politics can do what politics does.
Before bed, she prays for her family scattered across Europe, for the souls of the departed, for Portugal. What is Portugal becoming? She's not sure. It's not the country of her youth—more diverse, more complicated, more secular. But it's still recognizable. The flag still flies. The language still sounds like home. Tradition holds, if thinly.
Marques Mendes hasn't transformed anything. Perhaps that's his achievement—or perhaps that's his failure. For Fátima, at sixty-seven, the distinction matters less than it might have once. She wanted peace in her final decades. She has something close to it.