Across the breadth of Spain, from the jagged Asturian cliffs to the parched dust of Andalusia, the whispers moved faster than trains.
"The Lion returns."
It began, as all things did, with a murmur.
A priest near Zaragoza said he'd heard from a French Red Cross worker that French engineers had been seen near the border.
An old anarchist in Valencia claimed a convoy passed in the night with no markings, but carried crates stamped with "MINISTÈRE."
A child in Gerona swore she saw a man in uniform hand her mother a can of condensed milk and speak in a soft accent.
"Tell your father, the Lion remembers."
They didn't need a radio.
They had memory.
Spain remembered the man who came not with fanfare, but with orders.
Who didn't ask for loyalty, but inspired it.
Who bled beside them, dug trenches with them, and never let fear dictate his path.
The "León de España," they called him.
Not French.
Not a foreigner.
Just the Lion.
