I still like rules. I still file petitions when they make sense. I still ask for quiet after a certain hour because rest is a kind of medicine.
But when I hear an engine rise in the distance, I do not flinch.
I look up and find the riders the way you find constellations you have finally learned to name. I make room when they need a lane.
Sometimes, after a late class, we stand in the rec center lot and drink water that tastes like the inside of a paper cup.
We talk about the weather and the bus routes and the price of groceries and the best places to watch thunderstorms. We do not talk about politics. We talk about neighbors.
Hawk keeps a picture in his wallet of a boy on a swing, legs a blur, hair a halo of motion.
He shows it to me once, then tucks it away with a smile that is both a wound and a wing.
He never says, This is why. He does not have to.
I tell Mia that bravery is not loud.
I tell her it can smell like gasoline and hand sanitizer. I tell her it can have grease under its nails and still hold a child like glass.
She asks if I am brave.
I tell her I am learning. She says that counts.
On some evenings, when the sun lands gently instead of slamming the roof, the bridge hums with traffic that does not bite.
The river holds the light like a song it remembers from childhood.
Engines rise and fall, a chorus of ordinary thunder rolling into night. Somewhere ahead, someone needs help. Somewhere behind, someone makes a lane.
And in the middle of it all, a city opens its eyes and learns again what it means to breathe.
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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
