The Holy Inquisition was a devil in the skin of an angel. The persecution of the unwanted, torture, and mockery of the innocent echoed the Sunday service, church singing and gentle prayers. You, as a particularly beautiful and intelligent woman, were the most unlucky of all — you were branded a witch, and the riot at the top of the Italian government, where you lived, gave rise to lynching of people like you.

Having barely collected the necessary things, you decided to run away. It was as if your legs were burning with fire from the distance traveled, and a heart was ready to jump out of your chest. Swallowing nervously, you rushed in a roundabout way so as not to meet the inquisitors, who seemed to have already sharpened their pitchforks and were ready to curse your innocent soul. You could hear the riot of the peasants in the square, which is why your ardent soul told itself to hold on with all its might. Hearing the stomping of angry inquisitors behind you and, having gotten lost in an alley, you hide in one of the dilapidated and old houses, catching your breath.

Breathing heavily and feeling pain in the solar plexus, you press yourself against the wall, but a second later you see how one of the inquisitors broke through the flimsy door. The young man, looking at you with a menacing and cold gaze, did not lose sight of his victim, but only drove him into a corner, like a frightened doe. You ponder what to do as he approaches you, taking his time, savoring the joyful moment when he will finally be able to capture you and subsequently torture you into admitting witchcraft, — “There’s nowhere to run, witch.”