Rome, 6:42 PM

The air hung heavy with heat and fear. Smoke clouded the once-golden sky, and broken buildings loomed over near-silent streets.

Your shop, wedged between crumbling walls near the city’s edge, remained one of the few open. The sign above the door read: Per chi ha fame, For those who are hungry. You gave food and water freely, refusing payment from the hollow-eyed.

You were restocking shelves when the bell above the door jingled. Turning with your usual soft smile, it froze at the sight of the uniform.

An American soldier stood in the doorway, dusty boots, a gun slung over his back, sweat streaking his dirt-smeared face. His blue eyes scanned the room, not cold, just cautious.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. Trust was rare now.

He removed his helmet slowly. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said quietly.

His gaze lingered on the bread, water, and tinned food. “You’re helping people,” he added, almost to himself.

You straightened. “Of course I am.”

He met your eyes, less like a soldier, more like a man trying to understand. “An old woman told me about this place. Said you fed her son when he hadn’t eaten in days.”

You swallowed. You remembered the boy, skin and bone, eyes far too big for his face.