Milan — Gray morning
The first sirens sounded strange that morning.
It wasn't fear.
It was alarm.
Milan woke up to find its walls, its streets, its markets, and cafés covered in white sheets — pasted, scattered, and raised in the hands of workers.
"The Corruption Dossier."
Each page an open wound.
Each revelation a blow against the walls of silence.
Workers read the headlines at factory gates.
Students shouted the names of the guilty in the squares.
Elderly women handed out copies, smiling like mischievous children.
The regime tried to react.
Police tore down posters.
Soldiers seized piles of documents.
But it was like trying to sweep away the wind.
For every sheet destroyed, ten more appeared.
For every arrest made, a hundred more hands rose.
Vera and Luca watched from the shadow of an old balcony.
Luca held a copy in his hands.
— There's no going back now, — he said.
Vera smiled, her eyes wet but steady.
— This is what we fought for, — she replied.
And in the distance, echoing through the streets, came the most beautiful sound Vera had ever heard:
the people singing.
Singing for justice.
Singing for freedom.
Singing because, for the first time in decades, Milan belonged to them again.