It’s not just a story

I was ten years old when my grandfather took me to Water Gate Square. We gathered with our neighbours to listen to Ezra, the scribe read from the law. Grandfather was a big man, and as strong as a bear. He’d carried, chiselled, and cut great blocks of stone and put each one into its place to build Jerusalem’s new city walls. But he crumbled as a stone dropped from a great height when he heard the stories of old, and his tears watered the ground.