Milan — Improvised resistance headquarters
Night fell heavily over Milan.
In the small abandoned building where the resistance now organized the city's reconstruction, Vera moved silently among maps, reports, and lists of names.
Friendly faces smiled at her.
Many called her "La Voce" — The Voice — the symbol of the revolution that had ignited the city's heart.
But Vera felt the weight on her shoulders.
She knew what they hadn't yet dared to say aloud:
She was a target.
The system, though wounded, wasn't dead.
Fragments of the old order still breathed, hidden in the shadows, plotting retaliation.
— You need to leave — Luca said, approaching in a low voice.
Vera turned to him, her eyes tired but steady.
— If I disappear now, it'll look like cowardice.
— It's not cowardice, — Luca insisted. — It's wisdom. You've done what few would dare. Now we need you alive. To tell the story. To inspire.
Vera hesitated.
She looked out through the broken window.
Out there, the city was being reborn under the stars.
A city she loved more than her own life.
She knew.
The fight didn't end with a flag raised.
It continued in stories, in memories, in the examples left behind.
She took a deep breath.
— Where? — she asked.
Luca squeezed her hand, like a silent anchor.
— Wherever freedom can still protect you.
Vera nodded.
Deep inside, she knew:
sometimes, you have to disappear so that hope can stay alive.