The bracelet caught the candlelight, four words etched in ancient script. King Solomon traced the letters with his finger. He felt their weight settle into his bones. Even a wise man like him couldn't escape the pull of sorrow.

He'd summoned his sages weeks earlier. "Find me something," he'd said. "Something to anchor me when grief threatens to drown."

Now they stood before him, offering this simple circle of metal. Just words.

Solomon slipped it on. The metal was cool against his skin. With each heartbeat, with each turn of his wrist catching sunlight through palace windows, the inscription whispered its wisdom. His breathing deepened. The crushing weight in his chest began to ease.

Four words. That's all.

In despair, they promise better times ahead. In triumph, they warn that success won't last forever. The bracelet became Solomon's teacher, more patient than any sage.

We grasp at joy like children clutching soap bubbles. We flee from pain as if we could outrun our own shadows. Both futile. Both human. Both the source of unnecessary suffering.

You don't need a bracelet like Solomon's. You only need to remember. When loss hollows you out, when success intoxicates, when ordinary Tuesday feels eternal—remember Solomon's four words.

This too shall pass.

And somehow, knowing this, you can finally be here. Really here. Present for all of it.