Milan — Piazza Cadorna
The sky was heavy with smoke, the sun reduced to a pale yellow disc.
Vera walked among the rubble, her face smeared with soot, her body exhausted — but her spirit burning.
At Piazza Cadorna, a crowd was gathering.
There were workers in torn coveralls.
Students with books still slung over their shoulders.
Old men with calloused hands and young people with eyes blazing with hope.
Someone was improvising a stage atop an overturned truck.
Others were handing out flyers — copies of the documents Vera had helped unleash.
Seeing it all, Vera felt a lump rise in her throat.
She recognized faces — faces that once hid in the shadows out of fear, now shouting openly.
Shouting for justice.
Shouting for freedom.
Shouting for her, even without knowing her name.
Vera moved through the crowd.
When she reached the makeshift stage, a disheveled young man recognized her.
His eyes widened.
Without hesitation, he pulled her up onto the truck.
The crowd fell silent when they saw her.
She — the woman from the flyers.
The woman from the square.
The woman who had defied the untouchables.
An improvised microphone was placed in her hands.
For a moment, Vera felt the weight of every loss.
Luca.
Moretti.
All those who had fallen along the way.
But looking into those hopeful faces, she understood: she was not alone.
She drew a deep breath.
And with a voice thick with emotion, she said:
— This city belongs to us. And today... today we take it back.
The roar that exploded from the crowd was like thunder.
And at that moment, Vera was no longer just a fugitive.
She was the voice of the revolution.