Letter to maria

pte

Bell Tower

r heart and the hiss of the wind blowing through the stone cracks. Below, another step was repeated. Her hoodie blended into the shadows as she ducked into a small nook. As if it could still shield her, she tightly encircled

ics that had been hollowed out and pages that had been sewn into bindings. Her haven and cover were her bookstore. She had no suspicions, not even Captain Elio Ferrante, whose blue uniform gave her chills and who came every other Wednesday to buy old war novels. Not only were Maria's secrets heavy, but so was her heart. It was entangled in illicit love. Her heart had already chosen Elio Ferrante, the occupier's golden son who was well-trained for power, disciplined, and charismatic. Their encounters were brief but intense: a book passed with trembling fingers, a comment about poetry that appeared to be a code for something deeper, a glance that lingered for too long. Maria detested herself for wanting him, wondering if he felt the same, and knowing that she would lose more than just her life if he ever discovered her secret. Traitors were not forgiven by the rebellion. Additionally, treason of the soul was worse than betrayal when one loved the enemy. Despite this, she continued to move because the eerie whispers of her past remained unanswered. The night of the disappearance never really came to a close. As she hid her brother in the attic, she could still hear his quiet whimper, tires screeching, and boots pounding. When she got back, there was no one in the attic. The street as well. There had been nothing left but the stench of fire and the icy clarity of guilt. Layers of silence concealed the truth someplace. Even if it meant destroying everything Maria had built, Maria had pledged to dig it out. The morning Maria found the letter, it was raining. A shipment of old books from a deceased estate had just been delivered to her. Until she noticed an odd volume, Il Canto del Traditore - The Song of the Traitor, the majority were dusty and forgettable. It struck a strange chord with the title. She hesitantly opened the spine with her fingers. A slip of yellowed paper that had been folded twice and sealed with the old Resistance's mark, a symbol that had not been used since before the Night Sweep, was tucked away between the pages. As she unfolded it, her hands shook. They remained alive. – S. The church bell tower conceals the truth. Only a first name. No date. Without context. However, Maria recognized the handwriting. In the margins of her father's annotated Bible, she had once seen it. She sat behind the counter with shallow breathing as her legs gave way. Could it be accurate? Has anyone, possibly her father, survived? Or was it a lie that someone wanted her to believe? Before concealing the letter once more within the spine,