July, 1943. Sicily.
I can’t wait to see her again.
Adalasia. Such a beautiful name. The dry spots on her hands told me that she was one that was willing to take on the burden of work. She was the first to volunteer her service, making sure none that followed had anything that needn’t be done.She cares about people, I can tell. I watch her as her eyes follow the children of her house, playing and having fun. The smile that takes over her face as she sees how happy they truly are, without a care in the world.
And then the siren rings.
It changes everything. The kids playing on the floor scatter to the trap door that the Father has made. A door that will lead them underground, into a secret room where these feelings of love and happiness are absent. A room that houses the same fear, desperation, and, hopelessness I’ve seen in the towns before.
These people. They’re innocent. They don’t deserve this.
A day must come that changes things. I miss her. Adalasia. If you’re still out there…I love you.
How the World Should Work 