Years passed, and Enza continued to do what she had always done—feed those who were hungry, listen to those who needed an ear, and offer a safe space to anyone who found themselves on the fringes of a world that was spiraling further into madness. She had never set out to be a hero, never sought to be part of some grand resistance. She was just an old woman who ran a restaurant, who had lived long enough to know that, in the end, most people just needed someone to care.
Her days blended into one another—serving meals, chatting with the regulars who still managed to stop by, and discreetly helping those who couldn't ask for help openly. She didn't see herself as smart, wise, or even particularly kind. She just didn't have the energy to get worked up about people living their lives the way they wanted to. What was the point? The world was ending anyway, or so it seemed. The chaos of the Tribulation was everywhere—wars, plagues, a constant undercurrent of fear and paranoia—but in her little corner of Chicago, Enza carried on.
One night, she found herself sitting at one of the restaurant's back tables, the hum of the kitchen machines softly filling the quiet. The Global Community guards had been making more rounds lately, tightening their grip on the city, and it was becoming harder for people to slip under the radar. Enza had seen this kind of thing before. It reminded her of the war—when uniforms patrolled the streets and people were careful not to draw attention.
That night, a young boy stumbled through the back door, his breath ragged, his eyes wide with fear. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, his face pale and his hands shaking.
"Please," he whispered, barely able to get the words out. "They're looking for me."
Enza didn't need to ask who. The Global Community guards had been searching for any sign of resistance, cracking down harder with each passing day. She nodded and gestured for him to follow her.
"Come," she said quietly, her voice calm but firm. "This way."
She led him into the small storage room behind the kitchen, where the shelves were stocked with dried goods, jars, and canned foods. In the corner, behind a stack of crates, there was just enough space for someone to hide. The boy crouched down, his body trembling.
"Stay here," Enza whispered. "Don't make a sound. I'll take care of the rest."
A few minutes later, the door burst open, and two Global Community guards stepped inside, their faces stern.
"Have you seen a boy?" one of them asked, his voice cold. "He's wanted for questioning."
Enza didn't flinch. She had faced men like this before—men who thought their power made them untouchable. She smiled politely, her hands resting calmly on the counter.
"A boy?" she repeated, feigning ignorance. "No, I haven't seen anyone. It's been quiet here all night."
The guards glanced around, their eyes scanning the room. They lingered for a moment, as if debating whether to press the issue, but Enza's calm demeanor seemed to disarm them. After a few tense seconds, they grunted and left without another word.
Once they were gone, Enza returned to the storage room, her heart still steady, though she felt the weight of the moment settle over her.
"It's safe now," she whispered to the boy.
He stood, his legs shaky as he stepped out from behind the crates. "Thank you," he said, his voice barely audible. "I thought… I thought they were going to take me."
Enza patted his shoulder gently. "You'll be alright. Stay out of sight for a while, and be careful who you trust."
The boy nodded, his gratitude shining in his eyes. She gave him some bread and cheese before sending him on his way, quietly slipping him out through the back alley.
Another time, it wasn't a Christian boy running from the Global Community, but a young man running from his own family. He had come to the restaurant after a particularly brutal reeducation session his parents had forced him into, hoping to "fix" what they saw as a sin—his love for another boy.
Enza found him sitting at the farthest table, his head down, tears silently streaming down his face. She didn't say anything at first, just sat down across from him, letting the silence stretch between them until he was ready to talk.
"They… they said I was broken," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "That I needed to be fixed. That if I didn't change, I'd go to Hell."
Enza watched him quietly, her heart heavy with the weight of his words. She had heard too many stories like this, too many people being hurt because others thought they knew best. It was exhausting.
"And what do you think?" she asked gently.
The boy shook his head, his hands trembling. "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."
Enza reached across the table and placed her hand over his, her touch steady and warm. "Listen to me, figlio mio. You are not broken. You don't need fixing."
The boy looked up at her, his eyes wide with disbelief. "But they said—"
"I don't care what they said," Enza interrupted, her voice firm but kind. "You are who you are, and there's nothing wrong with that. Not one bit."
He stared at her for a moment, as if waiting for the punchline, for the caveat. But there wasn't one. Enza meant every word.
"Stay here for the night," she said after a moment. "I have a spare room upstairs. You can rest, and we'll figure out what to do in the morning."
The boy nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, and Enza led him to the small room above the restaurant, where he could finally feel safe, if only for a while.
Over the years, Enza became a quiet refuge for anyone who needed it—Christian boys hiding from the Global Community, gay kids hiding from their own families, and anyone else caught between a world that didn't understand them and the survival they craved.
She didn't think of herself as particularly wise or smart. Most days, she just felt old. Too old to care about what people believed or how they chose to live their lives. What did Nicolae Carpathia, or this supposed King Jesus, get out of all this, anyway? The power, the control? It didn't make sense to her. If they wanted a feeling of power, they should have just gone for a run or lifted weights like everyone else.
"People are strange," she muttered to herself one evening as she cleaned the last of the dishes. "They twist themselves in knots over things that don't matter."
As she dried her hands and turned off the lights in the restaurant, Enza knew that no matter what happened, she would continue to do what she could. She wasn't a revolutionary, wasn't trying to save the world. She was just an old lady who had lived long enough to know that sometimes, the smallest acts of kindness were the ones that mattered most.