The countryside near Turin had a stillness unlike anywhere else Ezra had ever been. Back home, the city never truly slept—holographic billboards flickered through the night, space elevator schedules hummed on a constant cycle, and the streets were always buzzing with life.

  But here, in Nonna Francesca’s old vil, the only sounds were the soft crackling of the firepce and the occasional howl of the winter wind against the shutters.

  Quarantinemas had always been a strange holiday. A full two-week period of isotion, a global tradition meant to combat seasonal pgues, where families stayed indoors and embraced the forced stillness. Some people hated it, but Ezra found something comforting about the way the world just… paused.

  Even still, his mind wasn’t resting.

  He should have been enjoying the quiet, the warmth of his grandmother’s cooking, the holiday movies flickering across the ancient television set in the den. But instead, he sat near the fire, staring into the embers, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on his chest.

  The ughter.The shoves into lockers.The stolen lunch money.The godforsaken nickname.

  He had carried it all with him, even across the ocean, like a sickness he couldn’t shake.

  “Tesoro mio,” came Nonna Francesca’s soft voice, pulling him from his thoughts.

  Ezra turned his head. His grandmother sat in her worn, high-backed chair, wrapped in a thick woolen shawl. Her hair, still thick despite her age, was pulled into a loose bun, and her wise, sharp eyes studied him carefully.

  “Come, sit,” she said, patting the seat beside her.

  Ezra hesitated before standing, crossing the room, and lowering himself onto the small wooden stool at her side.

  For a moment, they sat in silence.

  Then—

  “What is troubling you, my dear boy?”

  Ezra swallowed hard, staring at the floor. He hadn’t told anyone about the bullying. Not really. His father knew something was wrong, but Ezra had brushed off most of his concerns. Julie, despite all her support, didn’t know just how much it hurt.

  But here, in the dim glow of the fire, with the weight of his grandmother’s presence beside him… the words came spilling out.

  “It’s school,” he muttered. “This kid—Bruiser—he’s been messing with me. And it’s… bad.”

  Nonna Francesca listened, never interrupting, as he told her everything. The taunts, the shoves, the humiliation, the exhaustion of waking up every day knowing it would happen again.

  When he finally finished, he let out a shaky breath, his hands gripping the edge of his seat.

  His grandmother reached out, gently pcing a hand over his.

  She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before finally saying—

  “I know how much it hurts, amore. But let me tell you a story.”

  “When I was young,” Nonna Francesca began, “I traveled to Jerusalem as a student. It was the first time I had been so far from home, and I was terribly homesick. I missed my family, my friends, the sound of my mother singing while she cooked.”

  Ezra watched as her fingers traced the worn edge of her shawl.

  “One day, I found myself wandering through the markets, surrounded by merchants selling all kinds of treasures. There was one old man, a seller of trinkets, who caught my eye. He told me he had something special—a ring that once belonged to King Solomon.”

  She chuckled softly. “Of course, it wasn’t real. Just a simple silver ring. But he told me a story that I have never forgotten.”

  Ezra leaned in slightly. He sat quietly as Nonna Francesca continued, her voice carrying the warmth of a storyteller who had told this tale many times before.

  “King Solomon,” she said, “was known for his great wisdom—a man who ruled with unmatched intelligence, yet still sought to understand the world in ways no other king had before. One day, he called upon the greatest jeweler in his kingdom and gave him a challenge.”

  Ezra listened intently, watching the firelight flicker across his grandmother’s face.

  “Solomon told the jeweler, ‘Make me a ring that will lift my spirits when I am sad, yet humble me when I am joyful.’”

  She smiled softly. “Now, this was no small request. The jeweler searched far and wide, consulting the wisest sages, pondering what words could possibly hold such power. But at st, he returned with a simple golden band, and on the inside, he had inscribed four words:

  ‘This too, shall pass.’”

  Ezra let the words settle.

  “The king took the ring,” Nonna continued, “and the moment he read those words, he understood. When he was at the height of his power, when his kingdom was thriving, when he was celebrating victories—he would look at the ring and remember that even the best of times are fleeting. And when he faced war, loss, or great sorrow, he would look at it again and find comfort, knowing that even pain does not st forever.”

  She patted Ezra’s hand gently.

  “That, my dear boy, is the power of those words. They remind us to cherish the good and endure the bad. Because everything—no matter how grand, no matter how painful—will pass in time.”

  Ezra swallowed thickly, staring down at his hands.

  It wasn’t just a legend. It was a truth.

  One he needed to hear.

  Ezra’s breath slowed as he absorbed the words.

  “I bought the ring,” Nonna Francesca continued. “Not because I believed it was real, but because I needed that message. And I kept it for many years, always reminding myself—whatever sadness I felt, it would pass. And whatever happiness I had, I must cherish, for that too would not st forever.”

  She turned to him, squeezing his hand again.

  “You, my dear Ezra, are in a storm. But storms do not st forever.”

  Ezra swallowed hard, his throat tight.

  Nonna Francesca gave Ezra’s hand one st squeeze before slowly rising from her chair. "Wait here, tesoro mio," she murmured, moving toward the wooden cabinet by the firepce. Ezra watched as she opened a small, ornate box and carefully pulled something from within.

  When she turned back, he saw it—a simple silver ring, strung onto a delicate chain, the metal worn with age but still sturdy.

  “I made a neckce out of it years ago,” she said, draping it over her palm. “And now, I think you should have it.”

  Ezra’s breath caught in his throat as she gently pced the chain into his hands. The ring felt warm, as if it carried all the years of wisdom his grandmother had poured into it.

  As the night wore on, the sound of celebration began drifting in from the small vilge below. Even in quarantine, people found ways to mark the occasion—music pyed faintly through the streets, and the distant chime of church bells rang through the crisp winter air.

  Ezra sat beside his grandmother, his heart feeling just a little lighter.

  She didn’t give him a way to fix what was happening. There was no magic solution, no promise that the bullying would stop tomorrow.

  But she gave him hope.

  Hope that one day, he would wake up and Bruiser wouldn’t matter anymore.

  Hope that the things that seemed so massive now would shrink into something distant, something he could barely remember.

  And as the countdown for the New Year’s space elevator ball drop began, he sat with his grandmother, feeling something he hadn’t in weeks.

  A small, quiet certainty.

  That this too, shall pass.