Nonna Enza sat in her creaky armchair by the window, the faded sunlight filtering through lace curtains, casting soft shadows over the room. It was a quiet house, filled with memories, but now it felt cavernous in its emptiness. Her hands, weathered from decades of kneading dough and stirring sauces, rested on the arms of the chair, fingers idly playing with her gold wedding band. Her mind drifted back to the days when this house had been full of life—the scent of freshly baked bread, laughter of children, and her husband humming softly as he worked around the house.

But now, it was just her.

Her husband, Angelo, had disappeared, taken by the Rapture. Just like that. One minute they were watching TV, an old movie they both loved, and the next, his chair was empty. Enza had stared in disbelief, unable to move, unable to process what had just happened. She called out his name. Then again. And again. Nothing. She had known immediately, deep in her heart, that he was gone, taken like so many others.

But not her. It's not

The first few days after Angelo disappeared were a blur. Panic on the streets, people running, screaming, trying to make sense of the chaos. Nonna Enza, though, had always been calm under pressure. She had survived a war. She had been a lookout for the partisans in the hills of Italy, hiding in the shadows, alert to the sound of boots on the road. She knew how to keep her head when the world was falling apart. But this—this was different. This wasn't just the world collapsing into madness; this was something cosmic, something divine.

Enza had never been particularly religious. Sure, she was baptized, just like every baby in her little Italian village. She went to church on holidays, lit candles for the dead, but faith? It wasn't a big part of her life. Angelo was the religious one. He went to Mass every Sunday, said his rosary every night before bed. Enza was fine with it, it was a ppropriate, but she never felt that pull toward God the way he did. Too masculine.

Her faith wasn't the kind that got you Raptured. She wasn't a Christian—not really. Baptized, sure, like everyone back home, but that was just tradition. Her real faith was in the kitchen, in the herbs she hung to dry in the window, in the whispers of old prayers to saints that didn't show up in any Bible. Her great-aunt had taught her the ways of the kitchen, the little spells and charms that brought health, love, and safety. She had always believed that if you cooked with love, protected your home with rosemary and salt, and offered a prayer to the spirits of the land, you'd be just fine.

And she had been. Until now.

She'd built a life here in America. After the war, she and Angelo had emigrated, settling in the Chicago suburbs where she could run a restaurant and serve meals that reminded her of home. French-Italian cuisine, just like her mother had taught her. A small place, nothing fancy, but enough to keep them comfortable. Enough to give them a home. And enough to share with the kids in the neighborhood, the ones who didn't have anyone else. She played mom to them, making sure they were fed, had a place to do their homework, a place to stay when things got rough.

But now, they were gone too. All of them, vanished.

Enza rose slowly from her chair, her joints aching with age, and shuffled toward the kitchen. She moved carefully these days, a shadow of the spry woman she used to be. Her cane clacked softly against the worn hardwood floor as she made her way to the stove. She had stopped cooking elaborate meals for herself after Angelo disappeared. There wasn't much point in making big batches of pasta or her famous beef ragu when she had no one to share it with. Today, though, she'd make something simple. A pot of minestrone, just like her own nonna used to make when the weather was turning cool.

She stirred the pot, the familiar motions soothing her troubled mind. But her thoughts kept drifting back to the empty chairs at the dining table, to the faces she'd never see again. To Angelo.

"I miss you, Angelo," she whispered to the steam rising from the pot.

The world outside was different now. The news was filled with stories of violence, of chaos, of people searching for answers. The Tribulation, they were calling it. Enza wasn't one for prophecy or doomsday talk, but even she could see that something terrible was happening. The radio buzzed with talk of strange leaders, of people claiming to be messiahs, of wars and plagues. But she kept herself out of it. She wasn't young anymore. She didn't have the strength to fight the world.

But even so, she wasn't done living. Not yet.

Later that afternoon, Enza sat outside on her porch, the crisp Chicago breeze tugging at her shawl. She watched as the neighborhood—what was left of it—passed her by. The streets were emptier now. Some houses were boarded up, others abandoned. She could hear distant shouts sometimes, but she didn't pay them much attention. She knew trouble when she saw it, and right now, trouble seemed to be everywhere.

As she sat there, lost in thought, a small figure approached. It was one of the few children left in the neighborhood, a boy named Joey who used to come by her restaurant after school. He looked thinner than before, his clothes dirty and his eyes wide with fear. He shuffled up to her porch, clutching his little sister's hand.

"Nonna Enza?" Joey asked, his voice shaky.

She smiled warmly, opening her arms. "Come here, bambino. What's wrong?"

Joey hesitated before speaking. "Everyone's gone. My mom, my dad...they're gone." His voice cracked. "What do we do?"

Enza's heart broke for him. She stood, her legs protesting, but she ignored the pain. She pulled Joey and his sister into her arms, holding them close.

"I'm still here," she whispered. "You'll stay with me now. I'll take care of you, just like before. You're not alone."

Joey nodded, his small body trembling against hers.

Enza knew the world was falling apart. She knew there was no going back to the way things had been. But as she held those two children close, she also knew one thing for certain: she wasn't done yet. Not while there were still people to care for. Not while she still had her strength.

The world might be ending, but Nonna Enza had survived a war. She had lived through hardship, through loss, through everything life had thrown at her. And she would survive this too.

One day at a time. One meal at a time.

She would make sure of it.