Luca lived in a small apartment where evenings felt too fast. He could hear his dad typing on a laptop, click-click-click. He could hear his mom washing dishes, splash-splash-splash. Luca loved them, but he missed them. He felt lonely—his chest felt tight, like a button pulled too hard.
One day, Nonna Rosa came to visit. She carried a little suitcase and a big smile. “Luca,” she said, “our family has roots in Italy. Would you like to see where they started?”
Luca’s eyes grew wide. “Really? Like in the movies?”
“Real,” Nonna said. “Real streets, real stories, real pizza.”
That night, Luca tried to tell Dad about the trip. Dad said, “In a minute, buddy.” Mom said, “After I finish this.” Luca’s tummy felt wiggly. He wondered if the trip would be the same—everyone busy, everyone rushing.
A week later, Luca flew over the ocean. From the airplane window, clouds looked like giant scoops of vanilla. When they landed in Italy, the air smelled different—warm bread, salty sea, and sweet oranges.
They took a train to Naples. Luca pressed his forehead to the window. Buildings flashed by like picture cards. Scooters buzzed like friendly bees. Laundry hung from balconies like bright flags.
Nonna led Luca through a narrow street. The stones under his shoes were smooth and old. “Your great-great-grandfather walked these streets,” she said. “His name was Salvatore.”
Luca whispered the name. “Sal-va-to-re.” It felt like a secret treasure.
They stopped at a pizza shop with a painted sign: Maestro Enzo—Forno Antico. Inside, the heat hugged Luca’s cheeks. The oven glowed orange, like a small sunset.
A man with flour on his arms stepped forward. “Ciao! I am Chef Enzo,” he said. His voice was big and kind. “You must be Luca. Nonna tells me you want to learn.”
Luca nodded fast.
