The wind howled outside, carrying the first snowflakes of a bitter Chicago winter. The streets, already deserted from the chaos and fear that had consumed the world, seemed even quieter than usual. But inside Nonna Enza's restaurant, there was warmth—a warmth that had nothing to do with the roaring stove or the glowing Christmas lights she had strung across the ceiling.

Enza stood behind the counter, smoothing the front of her old, hand-sewn dress. The fabric, once a bright floral pattern, had faded over the years, but it still fit her as well as it had back in the '80s. She took a deep breath and surveyed the scene before her: the tables were set with simple linens, and the place smelled like rosemary, garlic, and fresh bread. Her restaurant, like the rest of the world, had seen better days, but for today—just for today—she was bringing back the past.

It was Christmas Eve, the first Christmas since the world had turned upside down, and Nonna Enza had decided that what people needed wasn't another reminder of what they'd lost. They needed a break from it. So, she had come up with the idea of a "Silent Christmas," a day where people could step back in time, forget the chaos outside, and pretend it was 1980 again.

The plan had come to her as she was clearing out the attic, making room for the massive supplies of food she had stored away. While moving old boxes of memories, she'd come across a faded Jimmy Carter campaign poster. She smiled, remembering when life had seemed simpler. The poster now hung proudly by the front door, a reminder of another era. The POS machine, with its blinking modern lights, was safely stowed away, hidden under the counter. There would be no swiping of cards today—just cash, if people had it. And if they didn't, well, she wasn't too worried about that either.

The bell above the door jingled, and Enza turned to see Maria and Sofia, her two waitresses, stepping inside. They were both young, but the last few months had aged them. Their eyes were still bright, though, and when Enza had told them her plan for a Silent Christmas, they had both jumped at the chance to participate. Maria adjusted the hem of the simple, borrowed dress Enza had given her, grinning despite herself.

"This is fun, Nonna," Maria said, spinning around once to make the skirt flare. "I feel like I'm in one of those old movies."

Enza chuckled. "That's the idea, ragazza. We're going to give everyone a break from all this... mess. For one night, we're going to pretend it's Christmas like it used to be."

Sofia, more reserved, but no less determined, smiled softly. "It's a good idea, Nonna. I think people need this."

Enza nodded. "Let's hope so." She turned to the stove, stirring a pot of minestrone. "Let's get ready, then. People will be coming soon."

By 6 p.m., the restaurant was filled with the soft clatter of plates and the low murmur of conversation. Word had spread quickly through the neighborhood about what Enza was doing. The streets may have been quieter than ever, but the people who were left—those who hadn't disappeared or fled—were hungry for something familiar.

The restaurant's usual prices had been slashed to practically nothing, and Enza had made sure to cook enough food to feed an army. No one was going to go hungry tonight, not on Christmas Eve. She had even turned down the lights a little, letting the glow of the candles on each table do most of the work.

The few patrons who could pay, slipped crumpled bills into a basket by the door, but no one was counting. That wasn't the point tonight.

At one of the tables, Dominic sat with a few of his friends, laughing quietly over bowls of pasta. The same Dominic who had been hard and scared just weeks ago now looked relaxed, at least for the moment. He caught Enza's eye and raised his glass of water in a small toast. She nodded back, her heart swelling with pride. These kids had been through so much, but tonight, they had a little bit of peace.

At another table, Mrs. McGinnis, one of the older women from the block, sat with her niece and nephew. They hadn't been able to afford much food in the last month, but tonight they ate like royalty, savoring every bite of Enza's cooking.

The sound of an old record playing softly in the background filled the room—a Christmas album from the 1970s that Enza had dug out from the back of a closet. It was scratchy, the melodies faintly distorted, but it was perfect. The lyrics of "Silent Night" floated through the air, and for the first time in a long while, everything felt... right.

As the evening wore on, Enza moved from table to table, making sure everyone was taken care of. She listened to the conversations, the soft laughter, and the clink of forks against plates. The air was warm and smelled of Christmas—of cinnamon and cloves, of fresh bread and simmering tomato sauce. For a few hours, at least, it didn't feel like the world was ending. It felt like it had when Angelo was still with her, when the neighborhood was full of life and laughter.

Sofia came up behind her, holding a tray of desserts. "Nonna, look at them," she said softly, her eyes scanning the room. "I think this is the happiest I've seen people in months."

Enza smiled, watching as a group of kids helped each other with slices of panettone. "That's the point, Sofia. We needed a night like this."

The door opened, and a few more stragglers came in, shaking snow from their coats. Enza greeted them warmly, guiding them to a table. "Sit, sit," she urged, her voice full of warmth. "There's plenty of food. Don't be shy."

She returned to the kitchen, where Maria was cutting fresh bread. "You know," Maria said, glancing over at the clock, "it's almost midnight."

Enza nodded. "Midnight Mass. That used to be the highlight of Christmas Eve for so many." She wiped her hands on a towel and stepped into the dining room again, watching as the families and friends around her continued to share food and stories, leaning into the joy of the evening.

When the clock struck midnight, Enza stood at the front of the restaurant and raised her voice over the gentle hum of conversation. "Miei cari," she began, her voice steady but full of emotion. "I want to thank you all for coming tonight. For sharing this meal with me. I know the world outside is not what it was. But in here, for tonight, we've made it a little brighter. A little more like it should be."

The room grew silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the stove. Enza smiled, her eyes sweeping over the faces before her. "I hope you all feel that love and warmth—because that's what Christmas is. It's not about the gifts or the decorations. It's about being together, even when things are dark."

A few heads nodded, and someone wiped away a tear.

"And so," Enza continued, "I want to wish you all a silent, peaceful Christmas. One we will carry with us, no matter what comes next."

With that, the room broke into quiet applause, and the conversations slowly resumed. Enza returned to the kitchen, feeling the weight of the world lift from her shoulders, if only for a moment.

Outside, the snow fell softly, covering the streets in a blanket of white, and inside, for one night at least, the world felt a little less broken.