France — Winter Night
Snow fell silently over the empty streets of the small town.
Vera walked slowly, feeling the crunch of frost beneath her worn boots.
With each step, memories of Milan blended into the cold mist:
The dark corridors of the tribunals.
The squares filled with the music of resistance.
The faces she knew she would never see again.
Living in exile meant carrying two lives:
A public one, discreet and monotonous.
And a private one, burning and restless.
Sometimes, at night, as she organized letters and clandestine pamphlets, Vera asked herself:
Was it worth it?
But all it took was to remember the crowded square on the day the trials began.
To recall the calloused hands raising makeshift banners of victory.
And she knew.
It had been worth every risk.
Every loss.
Every lonely night.
She stopped in front of a small bookstore's window.
Among forgotten books, she saw her own reflection:
A face aged by time.
Marked by battles.
But steady.
Whole.
She smiled.
A brief smile, unseen by anyone.
And she kept walking, carrying with her the silent certainty:
even far from home, she had never stopped fighting.