It’s an ER nurse who puts down her phone and picks up gauze.
It’s a crowd remembering that witnessing is more than watching.
Lila is ten now.
She still swings her feet when she reads.
Jenna works a shift that begins and ends in daylight.
They have a lock that clicks like punctuation and a neighbor who knows their names.
The Iron Halo Riders are still ugly in the ways rumor requires.
Which is fine because beauty was never the job.
The job is showing up with the engines low and the hands steady.
The job is knowing the password and being it.
Harbor, Lila said.
Harbor, I answered.
And the road said it back, drumming it into the air between exits.
A beat, a vow, a map you can carry in your mouth.
Some guardians come on two wheels and don’t ask to be understood.
They just make room for a child to breathe.
That was the day a nine-year-old sprinted across hot asphalt and taught the rest of us how safety looks when it wears leather.
That was the day I stopped filming life and started joining it.
If you need it, say the word.
Someone will hear you.
Harbor.
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This story is a work of fiction created for entertainment and inspirational purposes. While it may draw on real-world themes, all characters, names, and events are imagined. Any resemblance to actual people or situations is purely coincidenta
