HARDNOCK LIFE - by Success Uwakwe

Chapter One: Rain on Brick Micah hadn’t cried in over a year.Not when he found out they were gone. Not at the funeral. Not when he was taken away. But tonight, on a cracked city curb under a busted streetlight, he felt it behind his eyes—tight, hot. The kind of ache that builds when you've been holding the world in your chest too long. The rain came down steady. Cold. Sharp. It tapped against the hood of his sweatshirt like a quiet dare: *Break, boy. Break.* Micah didn’t. He watched as the city buzzed around him. Cars pushed through the wet. Neon signs blinked tired colors. People passed by, huddled under umbrellas, not noticing him. That’s the thing about cities. They don’t see you unless you’re in the way. It was his fifteenth birthday. No cake. No candles. Just the ache and the rain and the heaviness of *what used to be*. --- Two years ago, Micah had parents. A real home. A warm kitchen with chipped mugs and music playing too loud. His mom would sing while making eggs. His dad would joke about her dancing like she was still seventeen. Then the fire.Then silence.Then the system. Now he lived in **St. Mark’s House for Boys**, a place with rules etched deeper than the walls. A place where boys went when there was nowhere else to go. Micah had a room, but not a home. A bed, but not rest. --- “Yo, Micah!” He turned. **Dre** jogged up, hood pulled low, shoes splashing puddles. Seventeen, sharp-jawed, quick-smiled. The closest thing Micah had to an older brother. The kind who'd fought his way through the same corridors and figured out how to keep his soul from slipping through the cracks. “You gonna sit out here and catch pneumonia or what?” Micah shrugged. Dre sat beside him, shaking water from his sleeves. “Didn’t see you at dinner.” “Wasn’t hungry.” “You never are.” Dre pulled something from his jacket—a plastic-wrapped sandwich, half-smushed but still warm. He held it out. “Tuna. Don’t say I never did anything for you.” Micah took it with a nod. Bit in. Chewed. Swallowed. “You know what day it is?” Dre asked. Micah hesitated. “Friday.” Dre raised an eyebrow. “My birthday.” Dre nodded slowly. “Yeah. I figured. Four boys in that place remembered. None of them said anything.” “It’s whatever.” “Nah. It’s not.” --- Back inside, the hallway smelled like mop water and microwaved noodles. On the wall, a bulletin board sagged under faded flyers: *Job Readiness*. *GED Prep*. *Anger Management Group—Wednesdays @ 6.* Micah’s room was on the second floor. Four bunks. One window. No lock on the door. He laid on his mattress, still dressed, staring up at the ceiling. The paint was peeling. It looked like a map of some place he’d never been. > *Don’t dream too big,* he reminded himself.> *Hurts less that way.* But dreams weren’t always loud. Sometimes they were quiet. Sometimes they curled up inside you and waited. His mom used to say, *Hope is stubborn like that.* He reached into his backpack and pulled out a photo. His parents. Smiling. Happy. Real. He tucked it under his pillow and closed his eyes. The rain kept tapping on the glass. But this time, it sounded a little like music.

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