The steamer horn wailed as it faded into the fog, a lonely, mournful cry that cut through the early morning calm.

The Mother of Exiles loomed on the horizon, a colossal shadow just visible in the grey dawn. Her great stacks were dark and silent, and she stood motionless on her pedestal, ever beckoning and welcoming the tired and poor and the huddled masses, those yearning to breathe free, to the shores of America.

She was not poor, but Bolzano, indeed, was tired and yearning to breathe free.

Being on a ship felt strange when you were once a ship yourself. The way it swayed and bobbed at anchor was alien, unsettling. It felt almost like you were constantly falling.

But she was in no danger of falling or sinking. Not anymore. She was safe and dry. No more wounds and burns that wouldn't heal.

And that was all that mattered.

Close by, Matteo Castellani thanked the Virgin Mary for the safe passage. He kissed his crucifix, made the sign of the cross, and gave thanks for their fortune.

The greatest fortune in a long while was no longer having to fight for a lost, misguided cause of madmen.

He had declined a promotion in the newly-formed Marina Militare for actions with the Marina del Sud and the Mariassalto. Instead, he accepted the quiet life. For her sake, too.

They were tired. Very much so. They deserved this—the grandest dream one can have and all the promises that awaited them

A new start. A new world.

Farewell to la patria and farewell to Il Re.

The gangplank clanged as it hit the dock, and the passengers filed out of the ship.

Poles, Hungarians, Irishmen, Slavs, Greeks, fellow Italians—perhaps even all of Europe were there.

Most were smiling. Perhaps it was relief at having survived the voyage. Joy, for having reached the Promised Land.

Not a few were somber, perhaps regretting the life they left behind or mourning their losses. Maybe they were afraid of what lay ahead.

Matteo was among the former, choosing to believe that the future would be better.

With Bolzano, it always would be.

Her outlook might not be as optimistic, but now she could lean on him, just as he did with her.

It was a thought that was immensely comforting, and the smile returned.

They had little to carry, even more so for her. The clothes on their backs, fresh ones stuffed into the cases, and all the money he managed to make and save.

It wasn't close to the wealth of the nobles and the elite, but they were not destitute and wouldn't be left wanting.

And tucked in the little corner of his suitcase was a ring that once belonged to his mamma. In time, it would grace the finger of another woman dear to his heart. When the time was right.

The sun had broken through the overcast skies, and it was shining with all its strength, revealing the great city in the distance, the silhouettes of skyscrapers rising high.

Even Bolzano was awed.

The city was one of a kind. Not like his native La Spezia, where she also spent the last years of her service out of action, with a certain splendor that was distinct from the Eternal City.

A modern-day empire of marble and concrete and steel.

For the oppressed and the free, the hopeless and the ambitious, the weary and the strong, the young and the old, the poor and the wealthy.

"It will be alright," Matteo whispered. "The best is yet to come, cara. You'll see."

A little hope was all he could offer for now.

"Mm. Grazie, Cap—Matteo. Grazie."

Human, once more.


Medically cleared, their papers were scrutinized and stamped, luggage rifled through and returned, and questions were asked, the usual ones and then some. When it ended, they were awash with relief when the official extended a welcome, detached but friendly enough.

They left the building quickly, the first chance they could, before anything else happened, out of Ellis Island and onto the ferry, joining others who had already crossed the threshold.

Matteo looked up, and the statue seemed to look back down at him, a gentle, motherly smile on her face. He thought he might have been seeing things.

"So...this is it, Matteo."

"Yes, cara. The future you deserved."

"It's...a little scary," Bolzano admitted, leaning on the railing. "Everything is so new and big. It's almost like a fairy tale."

"Hm. Once upon a time, a princess fell in love with a poor boy from Liguria..."

"I'm a princess now...?"

Matteo chuckled as Bolzano pulled her hat lower, seemingly wanting to disappear into it like a turtle into its shell, face deeply flushed in luscious burgundy like her eyes.

"Hah, you are a princess. And I want to be someone worthy of being with you."

Bolzano let out a wheeze, the blush spreading to the tips of her ears, but the smile wouldn't be stopped.

"St-stop it. I...I really...do I deserve all this?"

The choppy bay had the boat rocking on the waves. Matteo took a step, but he found his footing.

He wrapped an arm around her and held her tight, her head resting against his chest. She squirmed at first but calmed down quickly.

"We do. After all that we've been through...we've earned it."

"Mm...I'm not the best at this, Matteo."

"What is that?"

"Loving. I...don't know if I can give you the kind of love you deserve."

"That's fine, cara. The fact that you came with me is enough."

"Really...?"

"Of course."

"Then...will you give me time? Time to learn so I can love you better?"

"Take all the time you need, cara. I can be patient."

"Grazie."

They separated just as the ferry began slow, the pier coming into view.

A walk, short and unhurried, led them to the streets of Lower Manhattan. Not of the fabled gold, but the sunlight shining down the pavements made it seem that way.

Curves and bends that never seem to end, boulevards and avenues, miracle mile upon miracle mile, each with its own promises.

Horns blared as automobiles, big and loud, weaved through the chaos like a herd of beasts. All American and nary a Fiat on sight. On the sidewalk, newsboys hawked headlines, and shoe shiners worked the crowds, seeking out any business they could get. There was no end to the aroma of cooked food and brewed coffee wafting from the delis and diners and bodegas, enticing all who passed by.

Life, as it was. Blood flowing in the urban veins of snaking roads.

Matteo held onto his lobbia as the wind picked up, and Bolzano drew closer.

Compared to some of her compatriots of old, her appearance wasn't quite as striking, so she drew little attention. Or perhaps New Yorkers were not as inclined to care for appearances, not when they were so busy with their lives.

"Where will we be staying?" Bolzano inquired, and he shook his head.

"Little Italy, of course. My Zia rents out rooms. We're going there now. And then..."

A brief pause.

"Then, I shall go find work. Maybe not with the Navy anymore. The merchant marine seems interesting. I mean, I do have the qualifications to work on a merchant ship. If not, I would like to find a place where I could put my engineering degree to use. Worry not, cara. We're not going to be poor. I'm not going to let that happen."

"You won't be alone. I can still help."

"No objections to that, but make sure you truly have recovered. There's no rush. We have all the time in the world."

He wanted to keep his promise to his mamma. To treat the person of his dreams right.

Who would have thought that person would be this woman who was once the soul of a warship?

But love was blind, and Italians were a romantic lot.

It didn't matter at all.

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

They will have them all.


Matteo's aunt threw a welcome party, and all tenants in her modest boarding house attended, many of whom were also transplants from the homeland. Ligurians, Sicilians, Abruzzese, Calabrians, Sardinians, Campanians—together under one roof.

Pesto and tagliatelle, pansotti, gnocchi, and baccalà, and heaps of vegetables and focaccia, with panna cotta to top them all off. The adults passed along bottles of albarola wine, and the children shared the limonata. A taste of home from the most generous host.

To Zia Anna, as Bolzano quickly found out, her origins mattered little. The matronly woman's embrace made it easy to believe she was never a weapon and was always her nephew's sweetheart, and simply that.

She cried a little in her arms.

And the feast was such that even Bolzano, whose appetite was never particularly large, had more than she'd usually partake. The food was filling and warming, one that could make them forget they were in New York instead of the land they left behind.

But it was home all the same, in the laughter and chatter in the common room and all the stories shared as children ran about, unmindful of their parents' admonishments.

It was like they had been there for years and not merely arrived.

No judging eyes, no leering gaze, no whispered gossip.

A little history for the curious, a little laugh for jokes and amusing anecdotes told and retold, and a little prayer for blessings and good health—all they shared without reservations or pretense.

When the festivities wound down, the guests went back to their rooms, and the newcomers volunteered to stay behind and help with the cleanup—but Matteo's aunt wouldn't have it, not even after they insisted. She graciously sent them on their way, saying she had helpers aplenty.

The room was clean and well-lit, with all the furnishings one could reasonably expect, and dominated by wood. Not luxurious by any stretch but far from a flophouse infested with vermin and vice, and the floor didn't creak when they stepped on it. There were two beds, each with a brand-new mattress and pillows, but the blankets were clearly hand-made. Matteo said nothing about them, but Bolzano understood. He knew that she needed time to be ready. She just hoped she would not let him wait too long.

The most prominent feature of the room was the large window overlooking Mulberry Street below, which allowed a clear view of the life in the neighborhood. Streetlights illuminated the thoroughfare, still teeming with cars and pedestrians, and shop signs were alight, promising a bounty of wares and services.

"Quite the day. I'm glad it went without too many problems...but this is just the start," Matteo tossed his tie onto the table and collapsed onto the bed, an honest-to-goodness warm one that was a welcome change to what they had in that cramped cabin.

Bolzano placed her hat on the stand, her fingers lingering on the fabric. It had seen better days, but she wasn't parting with it anytime soon, if only for its sentimental value. A well-crafted gift, her first and only. The giver would've had no idea at that time that he would eventually have a place in her life. Then again, she had no idea, either.

"At least it's a good start," Bolzano commented. "But I...I just couldn't help but feel so..."

Stop shaking, she told herself. Stop. You're being a fool. You are making him worried for no reason.

"It's normal. Whatever you're feeling, it's normal. If you want to let it all out, it's alright. If you don't, I understand. Just tell me, and I'll be there."

"I'm...I'm sorry, Matteo. For being like this."

"Cara, Don't be afraid to cry. Be human. It's what we're meant to be. Didn't I cry, too? For you, and for what we lost?"

He was already holding her when the tears came.

"I'm scared. So, so scared," she admitted. "I'm scared that if I allow myself to be too happy, it'll all be taken away. I'm scared this is just a dream."

"It isn't, cara. We're here for real, and I would know. You and I, we're truly in America. This is not some make-believe. I am no figment of your imagination."

"I...I..."

"It's alright to be scared. I wish I could say things will always be alright from now on, but I'm not going to pretend I know this road and what lies ahead. But I know I will not leave you alone in a strange land."

Too kind, whispered a dark thought, unbidden and unwelcome. Too good for you, a broken woman. You will hurt him. You will destroy him, and his kindness will become poison.

"Ma-Matteo. Maybe...maybe I shouldn't have come here with you. I-I'm...not worthy. I can't. I can't give you what you need. I can't make you happy. I can't. I'm...I'm—"

"Bolzano."

His voice was firm, a practiced, commanding tone only those who have led could muster, one that cannot be ignored.

What Matteo was waiting for, Bolzano did not know. He was silent, looking right into her eyes, the gaze hard but not cold and she felt...seen.

She lowered her eyes and turned away.

"Look at me."

She did.

"Tell me again that you are not worthy of love. Tell me again that I'm better off without you."

Bolzano felt a knot in her stomach, her heart racing and daring not to look up. Was he angry? Was he hurt? The thought left her terrified.

"I...can't. I can't do that, Matteo."

She shook her head so hard her neck hurt. But only until his thumbs moved across her cheeks, wiping the tears away like the sun banishing storm clouds.

"See, it's not what your heart told you, isn't it? The mind is a treacherous thing sometimes, but the heart..."

"...doesn't lie," she finished.

"It is. And you have one, Bolzano. A beautiful, beautiful heart. You deserve happiness, too, just like everyone else. Real, genuine happiness. I won't say I'll be the one to give you all that, but I want to help you find it. So, please, don't ever say those things again. Don't talk about yourself like that."

"I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's alright, cara. And I'm sorry, too, for all I said. For pushing you like that."

"I understand, Matteo...I...It's no easy task to take care of someone like me. Yet you...you came for me. Thank you. Thank you so much. You didn't have to do that. You could've walked away, but you didn't. I want to. I want to be better. For you."

"For yourself, too, cara. Above all else, do it for yourself. No matter how long it takes."

"I will, Matteo. For you and for me. And I...I...want to be the kind of person you deserve."

"But don't push yourself too hard, and no being harsh on yourself, alright? Take it easy, cara. I'm not leaving you."

"Mm."

Bolzano thought she would, but she didn't tremble. She thought he should, but he didn't let go. She thought she could, and she did hold him back.

They might need a shower or perhaps a change of clothes. Or both. Or maybe they didn't, and that was just her mind overthinking things, as usual.

It was a good start, indeed.


Matteo had no luck finding an engineer's position, and none of the ships in the merchant marine was in dire need of a first mate. An acquaintance he made at a bar in the Lower East Side suggested that if he didn't mind working a bit closer to the earth but not too far from the seas, the harbor could use another dock foreman. He took the offer and was welcomed with open arms.

As it turned out, his training with the Decima Flottiglia MAS still had its use there, even if only to break up a fight or two or three or, on occasion, stop a thief or pickpocket.

His experience with leading a ship's crew helped more than a little. When the men found out about his days in the Regia Marina, they treated him with a little more respect, and he returned the favor by treating them as equals—and by telling them everything they asked about his time at war.

The work paid less than the Navy and certainly was not as prestigious, but he didn't miss the old times and had nothing to gripe about. Not as long as he could pay his Zia the rent in full.

Bolzano had taken to helping around the house even if Matteo's aunt insisted she didn't have to, but her stubborn side wouldn't have any of it. It was, in a way, her only chance to pay for her stay, and though she didn't expect it, she was learning, little by little, small things that a weapon had no business knowing.

A week later, after dinner, they sat down together in their room.

"We'll be fine, cara," Matteo assured her as he nursed the pristine passbook. Most of their funds are now in Bank of America, and barring a major disaster which hopefully will never come, they are secure until at least the next year or two.

"Yes, but..." Bolzano fidgeted. "I should do something, too."

"I hate to say this, cara, but you...I'm sorry, okay? It'd be difficult for someone without any degrees whatsoever to find a job. But I promise I will keep my ears and eyes open. Maybe there will be something you can do. After all, you're a good learner. A good listener. A hard worker. You're not worthless."

He didn't like how her face fell, not one bit. But the smile afterward didn't seem forced, so he didn't push the issue further.

"And here, in Little Italy, everyone seems to know everyone else. You could ask Zia if she knows someone who needs help," he advised. "I think a store or two would have an opening, and all they need is the willing with at least one working ear. And believe me, if you're part of the community, you will be treated well."

"Mm. I will try. Grazie, Matteo."

"So that settles it. Let's get ready for bed. I'm beat."

"Sure."

One quick shower and change of clothes later, they were already tucking themselves into their beds in the dark of the night.

They exchanged their usual 'goodnight' and drifted off—at least Matteo did. Bolzano was not as tired, and her thoughts would not let her sleep.

On the other side of the room, Matteo was asleep, his breathing steady and slow. She noted how spent he must've been for him to fall asleep so fast and how he deserved it.

The distance between the beds was not vast, a scant few steps at most, yet it felt insurmountable in the dark. It had been like that for the whole week, and each day, it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore it comfortably.

One step.

How selfish can you be?

Two.

How dare you bother him in the middle of the night?

Three.

Bullheaded, aren't you?

Four.

Stop, you fool.

Five.

Just.

Six.

Stop.

Seven.

"Ma-Matteo," Bolzano whispered, her hands clutching her chest. Ever the light sleeper, he stirred awake, and despite the clear fatigue, he had a smile ready, which quickly gave way to a concerned frown.

"Cara...what's wrong? Come here and tell me about it, okay?"

Arms wide open, the invitation was clear. She allowed herself to be drawn into the embrace, and it was warm, as it had always been. And if she could be bold with this, it would stay with her.

"Can we... can we sleep together? Like this, please?"

"Sure. The bed's a little too small for two, but we'll manage. We always have."

He chuckled, and she couldn't help but laugh a little herself.

"Oh, Matteo, grazie."

She let herself fall onto the bed along with him. All of it felt more real and right—the surface, the softness, the scent. It was the same as her bed, but somehow, it felt different.

"Are you sure nothing's wrong?" He murmured, running a hand through the black locks as she snuggled even closer. "I'm here. Tell me."

"I was just...lonely, Matteo. I don't know what came over me. I'm...sorry."

"Hey, it's okay. I'm glad you took that step. Be proud of yourself, like I'm proud of you."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. And whenever you feel like it, we can always do this again. Just let me know, alright?"

"Mm."

The way she was being held, treasuring and comforting, was emboldening. Was this what they called 'touch-starved'?

He was already snoring again, but she didn't mind. If her body was a little uncomfortable, her heart was at ease.

She was getting closer.

Little by little, but closer.


A bakery run by a Sicilian couple on Grand Street was seeking to hire an assistant, and with a little word from Matteo's aunt, they accepted the applicant showing up at the doorstep the very next day.

The owners were firm about mistakes but quick to reward a job well done and were understanding of learners.

The pay was modest, but there was always a leftover loaf or two to take home each day that Bolzano didn't have to pay for. Considering they were not lacking in food, she'd always given them to those she knew needed it, especially the children.

And, in turn, the neighborhood children had learned not to steal bread, as the shop owner's cane could really, really sting.

The work was repetitive, but then again, so was the war, where it was one battle after another. This one, at least, wouldn't sink her. The most hurt she got was a small cut.

It wasn't dull, either, because there was an abundance of stories to be heard from all walks of life, things that she had never experienced herself.

Somehow, the smell of fresh bread was pleasant, too, and she enjoyed the feeling of creating something with her own hands.

All things considered, this was not a bad way to start.

But the best thing was the first time she took home her earnings and presented the envelope to Matteo, who simply pushed it back gently to her and said the words she would never forget.

"I'm so, so proud of you. Be proud of yourself, too, cara."

Indeed, she was.


Bolzano wouldn't consider herself a very observant person, especially about herself, but she could notice the changes.

Her voice had gotten a bit louder, her tone a bit firmer. She walked a bit taller, carried her head a bit higher.

The mirror was no longer something she had to force herself to look at.

Without fear of seeing a broken thing looking back.

Because the reflection was smiling.

"Hello," she touched the surface, fingers gliding along the image. "It's nice to finally see you."

The reflection didn't disappear.

And she was smiling, too.

She smiled more as the days turned into weeks, the weeks into months.

August was the peak of summer, and Little Italy was abuzz even more, for Ferragosto was around the corner.

People were talking about it in all kinds of places—of plans, of food, of fireworks.

The Feast of the Assumption will never be a mere trifle, not in the neighborhood. That was the reason why seemingly everyone, from the children to the elderly, contributed an effort, no matter how small, to the event.

Bolzano was mulling what she could give or do when Zia Anna came up to her.

"Bolzano, cara, I was wondering how you feel about taking part in a dance?"

"Dance?"

"Si. We're going to have a performance. Nothing fancy, just a simple tarantella. And we could use your help. What do you think?"

"Well..."

"Don't worry about not knowing how. Just come to the hall tomorrow with me and try out. I can't say we have enough people yet, so I'm recruiting, especially the women. Oh, and Matteo will be there, too."

"Ah...Matteo?"

He didn't seem to be the kind of person who would take an interest in a dance performance. But perhaps he was just looking to help wherever he could, and there was no shame in that.

"Sure, I'll join. "

For the entire week, the hall was buzzing with the tunes of mandolins, fiddles, and accordions, with the rhythmic beat of the tambourine and castanets and the tapping of feet.

Everything started slow because not all the dancers were from the South, but soon enough, the steps picked up pace, and they could move as nimble as the Neapolitans.

Sore feet, tired limbs, sweating like never before. All they endured for the sake of the community. Not unlike the fighting of the past, in a way. Perhaps that was why the feeling was familiar.

But the shared laughter, seeing others becoming as one, was their reason to press on, not the ambitions and greed of politicians.

The big day would even be more memorable; she was sure of it.


Bolzano didn't need to think of what to wear. They were all dressed the same.

White bodice and red gathered skirt. A green corset and a white lace apron. Shiny black flats and white socks.

She did her hair into two braids instead of one, but that was the extent of her personal touches. She wasn't looking to stand out.

The streets were filled to the brim with people eager for a good time, and there was no shortage of sights. A statue of La Madonna was carried around, garlanded and decorated with flowers. Some cried as she passed them by as if to make their pleas known, while some simply smiled and waved flags and handkerchiefs at the icon.

Elsewhere, a group of street musicians played tunes from the Mediterranean, and a troupe of harlequins was causing mayhem, to the delight of the crowd.

And the smell. There was no telling how many different dishes were being prepared and served, from the simple to the extravagant, representing the rich culinary traditions of the land.

It didn't matter if it was blazing hot, for gelato and cold drinks were plenty, and the children had fun with the games and prizes.

Their dance was among the centerpiece of the celebration. She thought Matteo looked dashing with his vest and shirt and three-quarter pants, his hair slicked back with oil. His eyes were always on her as they joined the other pairs in the Tarantella Napoletana, and she reciprocated.

The frenetic music and the movements made Bolzano's heart beat faster, and the playful, flirtatious steps they took turns to perform made her head spin. Sometimes, Matteo would lead her along, but sometimes, he would mirror her.

Fluttering, circling around the other like birds, arms linked and shoulders brushing, a brief twirl, and then away again, all while the sun was at its height.

She could hear his heart drumming and thumping and could see his face flushed.

And she wondered if he felt the same as she did.

They had never been so close, never danced together.

But this, their first, imperfect as it may—it would be special, it would be cherished.

Soon, spectators joined in, and it was a massive whirlwind of people and laughter. It felt good—all the applause, cheers, song, and the heat of the moment.

And soon, the dances did end, and with a bow, they disappeared into the sea of revelers.

Their palms were slicked with sweat, but they wouldn't let go, not just yet.

They'd only let go when they were seated near the stage where a tenor was performing, with Pizza Margherita being their treat. Matteo had a glass of Chianti, but Bolzano, who never quite developed a taste for alcohol, opted for ice-cold Coca-Cola.

"What a wonderful performance, eh?" He remarked, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "That was fun."

"Si, it was."

"You know, cara, you looked absolutely beautiful today."

"Oh," Bolzano blushed. "You're just saying that."

"I mean it. You, carissima, were the most beautiful one there."

"Thank you, Matteo. You were, um, very handsome, too."

"Grazie. That means a lot coming from you."

"You're welcome."

The tenor had just finished his number when he turned to them and smiled knowingly.

"Bene, bene. And now, here's a song that's a personal favorite of mine. A love song, in fact."

He took a sip of water, cleared his throat, and began to sing.

"Che bella cosa na jurnata 'e sole..."

"Oh, this...O Sole Mio. Mamma and her family were from Napoli before they moved to La Spezia, and she loved this song. Papà, despite not knowing Neapolitan and mangling his pronunciation, won her over by serenading her with it. At least until nonno found out, and then he threatened to get his shotgun. It took a long time before he softened to papà, and the shotgun was real. Papà wasn't afraid, though. He was determined."

"...Really, Matteo?"

"Yes, but in the end, his persistence paid off. You see, cara, that's what amore is all about. You would do anything, everything for that person. Nothing's too big or small. All you know is that you would do anything. Because you want them to be happy, and you'll give anything you can to make it so."

He was talking about himself, too, Bolzano realized.

Everything he did, he did because he loved her.

He had said that to her.

And she couldn't find it in her to deny the feelings inside.

The more she listened to the song, the more she could feel her heart thumping against her chest. The words, as Matteo explained, compared the beauty of the woman to the warmth of the sun.

In her case, the man sitting across from her was the one who was like that sun, and that thought had her cheeks heating up and her eyes moistening.

And then, as the final note rang through the air, the sun shone brighter and hotter.

She reached forward, clasped his hands, and gazed into his eyes.

"You...you really meant everything, didn't you? I can tell. You've always been so good to me. I'm sorry I didn't say it before, but, oh Matteo, I...love you. I love you so much."

The smile was the biggest she had ever seen, and the tears, his and hers, were of joy.

"Cara...cara mia..."

"Yes?"

"Can I...be selfish and hear that once more?"

The second time flowed easily like the Tiber.

And the third, fourth, and beyond.

He stood up, almost knocking his chair down, and swept her into an embrace, and for the first time, their lips met, and there were clapping and whistles. Even the singer paused and was grinning ear to ear.

Even after the sunset and the fireworks made the sky a garden of brilliant blossoms, neither found it in them to let go. Whenever one did, the other would pull them back in.

But it was not fear anymore.


Bolzano later found him staring outside when she had just returned from the shower.

"Matteo?"

The fact that he smiled readily when he heard her was a relief.

"Oh, cara..."

He took her hands in his again, and she let him.

"What's the matter?"

"It's just...I've been waiting for so long. I know, I know, I sound so needy right now. I'm sorry. But...I just...have one more thing to ask. The most important thing. You don't have to answer me now. Take as long as you need, okay? But I want you to think about it."

"What is it?"

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and exhaled.

"Will you marry me, Bolzano? Will you be my wife?"

Are you sure? You? You, a—

Silence. You will not bother me anymore.

The answer was as simple as it was profound.

"Yes...Matteo. I will marry you."

And that was the last of her doubts.

Greater joy than this could not exist.

Her past self would never have thought it was possible.

But now, every door seemed to be wide open. Every path was lit, every place was reachable.

Every story they could write will be written.

Together, of course.

This was their freedom, after all.