Evelyn Harris stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat atop her head. The reflection staring back at her wasn’t quite the woman she used to be. The face had the same sharp cheekbones, the same dark eyes, but beneath the surface, it had transformed. The soft, demure woman who once kept to the domestic sphere had been replaced by someone with fire in her heart, someone willing to stand up and fight.

The suffrage movement had grown in strength, its roots digging deeper into the soil of the country, but still, so many voices remained silent. As the 1917 protest loomed, Evelyn could hear the voices of doubt creeping into her mind. “What if they arrest you?” her mother’s voice echoed, heavy with worry. “What if they hurt you? What will happen to us?”

But Evelyn’s resolve had hardened. She had lost count of how many times she had been told to stay quiet, to wait her turn, to trust the men in power to make decisions for her. She had heard the whispers in the church, the disapproving glances from her friends. A woman’s place is in the home, they said. This isn’t a battle for you to fight.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the mirror. This is my battle, she thought. This is our battle.

It wasn’t just the vote she was after. It was dignity, respect, equality. It was the right to stand beside men as equals, to be heard, to be seen. She had seen what other suffragettes endured—hunger strikes, imprisonment, violence—but it was never the fear of suffering that held her back. It was the fear of being invisible, of never speaking up for those who couldn’t.

Today, it wasn’t just her voice. It was the voices of every woman who had ever been told she wasn’t enough. Every mother who had fought for her children’s future, every sister who had fought for her right to be heard, every daughter who had been told her dreams were too big.

Stepping away from the mirror, Evelyn glanced at the door, where a long coat lay neatly folded. She had promised her father she would be careful. I’ll be careful, she thought, swallowing the lump in her throat. But she couldn’t turn back now.

As she walked out into the crisp morning air, the streets were still quiet, the world around her still not quite awake. Her heart pounded in her chest as she joined the other women gathering at the corner of the square. They were dressed in white, with sashes of purple and gold—symbols of the cause they had all come to support. Some faces were familiar, others new, but each one held the same determination, the same unspoken promise that today would matter.

The crowd grew as they moved toward the Capitol, marching in step, their feet a quiet rhythm that seemed to echo through time. Evelyn walked beside them, shoulders back, eyes forward, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel afraid. She felt alive.

A murmur passed through the crowd as they neared the steps of the Capitol building. The police stood in rows, their eyes trained on the protestors, but Evelyn didn’t flinch. She had prepared herself for this moment, and in the silence that followed, she realized that it wasn’t just the march that mattered—it was the stand they were taking. Every step forward was an act of defiance, every breath they took was a claim to their rights.

As the first stone was thrown, and the first shout rang out from the opposition, Evelyn’s pulse quickened, but she didn’t retreat. The suffragette movement was no longer a whisper in the dark—it was a roar, and she was a part of it.

Today, they would not be silent. Today, they would be seen.