Ines and Gianpietro, it has been almost two weeks since the quarantine started in Milan. I asked them what they think about the situation. Obvious question, nowadays. Ines shrugs and says: “In the end we just have to stay home and take care”. Smiles, rolling her eyes, and continues: “Grandpa still goes to buy the newspaper”. And now he puts on mask and protective gloves, but I have worked hard to convince him. He does not wear them wholeheartedly or for civic spirit, rather as a burden that keeps him from fully live his walk around the block. Grandma sighs: “We will get through this”. Here I am, another evening at my grandparents’ house. The main difference is that I will get them their groceries cycling, living with the anxiety that I could be stopped and controlled by the police. I watch them, usually, I would do it absent-mindedly, but not this time. Elderly people: from another time, raised without any comfort during a World War. My grandparents, sometimes I ironically call them “rocks”, now seem me more like two pieces of grey-white granite. It’s hard and rough, but when it falls it could easily break. This condition is not only felt by elder people: I feel it too with my 23 years old. I feel it in my bones. Perhaps I’m not as strong as I think. In the end, my grandparents have survived World War. Maybe that is why their calmness grazes indifference. And when I come here, at their place, they offer me the same coffee as always, catching me up in the old same routine, with my grandma boasting about her plants and flowers on the balcony. My grandpa mumbles while reading the newspaper, precious loot of his morning expedition in this post-apocalyptic landscape. I propose a card game. It will take me a century, but that is the only occasion where their memories become stories, screened in the present times. But there’s another moment when memories become stories: music. Some old LPs of French music or of Milan’s dialect music take back flashes of a lifetime, with my grandma slowly singing while sitting on the couch of the room where my grandpa preserves the old Philips’ turntable. And in the end, it comes the moment when I must get back home, while they watch for me at the window, covered by an embroidered white curtain. I open the door, turn around and greet them: “Bye guys, be good”.