Building a Conglomerate in Another World-Chapter 302: Beneath the Mulberry Tree

September 18, 1899 — Washington, D.C., Hesh Residence

The late summer sun filtered through the rustling leaves of the mulberry tree in the backyard of the Hesh residence, casting dappled shadows across the patio where President Matthew Hesh sat with a cup of black tea in one hand and a worn leather-bound novel in the other. A rare breeze teased at the edges of his open shirt collar, while the distant clatter of carriage wheels and the occasional songbird reminded him that life, for once, was unfolding quietly.

The house was still. Amber had taken Sophia downtown for an early piano lesson, and Arthur was out front with the neighborhood boys, building a wooden fort from scrap planks and rope, loudly debating over whether it should have a flag. Matthew had intended to join them for a few minutes, but Arthur had insisted that forts were a "no-Papas zone" unless a battle needed refereeing.

He chuckled softly to himself, watching as a bee hovered over the mulberry blossoms and buzzed off. His tea had cooled, but he didn't mind. The air held the final warmth of the season, and for once, he felt no pressure to be anywhere, sign anything, or write a speech that might reshape a continent.

A rustle at the screen door interrupted his reverie.

Collins stepped out cautiously, holding a small folder. He looked distinctly out of place without a tie, having finally been convinced to dress down for his Sunday visit.

"I told you not to bring anything work-related today," Matthew said without looking up from his book.

"I know," Collins replied, settling into the wicker chair beside him. "But this one's more of a curiosity than an emergency."

Matthew set the book aside with a raised brow. "All right. Humor me."

Collins handed over the folder. "A letter. From a schoolteacher in Pyongyang. She included a sketch—her students tried to draw you based on newspapers."

Matthew opened the folder and pulled out the carefully folded paper. Inside was a charcoal portrait that bore a vague resemblance—square jaw, high forehead, but oddly exaggerated mustache—and a letter written in elegant but slightly broken English.

Dear President Hesh,

My name is Miss Hae-lin, and I teach history and writing to twelve students aged eight to twelve in Pyongyang. Our school was rebuilt on the site of an old army depot. The children say the trains make the walls hum.

Last week, we learned about the peace conference in Geneva. I asked the students to write letters about what peace means to them. Most wrote about rice, about mothers who no longer cry, and about books arriving on railcars. One student—Jun—said that peace means "not having to know where to hide."

I share this with you because you helped make that world. You may never meet my students, but they know your name. We thank you.

Respectfully,

Teacher Hae-lin

Matthew read it twice before setting the paper gently in his lap. The silence stretched for a moment.

Collins broke it with quiet reverence. "Thought you might want to keep it."

"I'll frame it," Matthew replied, voice low. "Put it in the hall outside my study. Maybe next to the Geneva photograph."

Amber stepped out onto the porch then, carrying a tray with two glasses of lemonade and a small plate of cherry tarts. She smiled as she caught sight of Collins.

"You stayed for tea?" she asked.

"Dragged him into it," Matthew replied. "Besides, he brought a letter from Korea. One worth reading."

Amber glanced at the letter on Matthew's lap. She didn't ask what it said—just placed the tray on the small table and sat beside him, her presence a warm reassurance.

Arthur's voice called from the front of the house. "Mama! Papa! We need rope!"

Matthew grinned and called back, "What for?"

"To pull the dragon out of the moat!" Arthur yelled.

"Sounds serious," Amber said with a smirk.

Matthew stood slowly, stretching. "I suppose I should go assist with the dragon extraction."

Collins stood too, brushing crumbs from his lap. "I'll leave you to it. And Mr. President—take the whole day off. That letter's worth more than any meeting."

Matthew clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks, Collins."

Later that afternoon, after successfully defeating the imaginary dragon (and getting a splinter for his trouble), Matthew lay on the grass in the backyard beside Arthur, who had declared they were now "Guardians of the Fort." Sophia toddled over, clutching a stuffed lamb, and flopped down onto her father's chest with a happy sigh.

Amber sat beneath the mulberry tree, sketching the scene idly in a notepad.

"Papa," Arthur said suddenly, turning to face him, "will I get to ride one of the real trains soon?"

Matthew looked up at the sky, where a hawk circled far above the Capitol dome. "Yes," he said. "Maybe next spring. We'll take one all the way to California. You, me, Mama, and Sophia."

"Can we see the ocean?"

"We'll end at the ocean," Matthew said. "And if you want, we'll find a ship and keep going."

Arthur grinned. "To China?"

"Or Korea. Or Japan. Wherever you'd like."

Arthur fell silent for a moment, pondering. "Do they have dragons there?"

"No real ones," Matthew replied, "but lots of stories about them."

"I like stories."

"So do I."

Amber glanced up from her sketchbook. "Maybe we should start writing them down."

Matthew turned his head to look at her, sun catching in her hair. "We've written plenty. Just not in books."

"Then let's change that," she said, tapping the notepad. "Our children should remember more than headlines. They should remember picnics, and trains, and make-believe dragons."

By evening, the sky turned a soft lavender hue, and lanterns were lit around the garden. The family shared dinner on the porch—roast chicken, sweet potatoes, and bread from the local bakery. It was nothing grand, but it was perfect.

As twilight deepened, Matthew tucked Arthur and Sophia into bed. Arthur asked again about the trains, and Sophia, half-asleep, mumbled something about flying to the moon.

When he returned downstairs, Amber was seated on the couch, a folded paper in her hand.

"I found something in your old campaign journal," she said, handing it to him.

It was a quote, written in his own handwriting from years ago.

If we win the war, let us build something better than victory. Let us build permanence.

Matthew smiled and folded the page again.

"We're getting there," he said. fгeewebnovёl.com

"Slowly," Amber agreed.

"Steel and stories," Matthew added.

He leaned into the couch, arm around her shoulders, and for the first time in a long while, they let the silence settle—peaceful, honest, and deserved.