Grandmother's Secret
A floorboard wobbles beneath your knee. You pry it up and find a leather notebook, its pages crammed with names, dates, and tiny gold stars. Your grandmother's handwriting fills every line.
She wasn't just a quiet old woman. She led something. A resistance, stretching back decades. The vial, a note explains, was meant as proof—evidence that real joy still existed, unrationed and untamed.
Footsteps echo somewhere above. You have to choose, now.