HARDNOCK LIFE - by Success Uwakwe

Chapter 7 — The Weight and the Wings The city sounded different when you weren’t running from it. Micah walked down 143rd, his hood up, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. Spring hadn’t hit just yet, but the air didn’t bite the same way it used to. His sneakers thudded against the sidewalk with purpose — no more scuffing, no more dragging. Just steps forward. Every one of them counted now. It’d been almost a year since his parents died. A year since everything split open and the light disappeared. A year since he almost lost himself trying to find something — *anything* — that made the pain stop. And in that year, he’d changed. Not fast. Not pretty. But real. He stopped in front of the brick building with the faded green doors. Miss Carla’s center. The place where he’d gotten his first real job mopping floors and stacking chairs. Where he learned how to help kids with homework even when he barely passed himself. Where he first picked up a pen and wrote down the pain instead of fighting with it. Micah pushed the door open. Inside, the place smelled like paper, sweat, and lemon cleaner. Laughter bounced off the walls. Kids raced past him, screaming about dodgeball. Miss Carla sat in her office with the door open, eyebrows lifted like always, warning you she saw everything even when she didn’t look up. “Micah,” she said without turning her head. “You’re late.” “Didn’t know I was on the clock,” he shot back, grinning. “You always on the clock, boy. This community don’t pause for no one.” He walked over and leaned on her doorframe. “You get my email? About the after-school music program?” She finally looked at him — really looked — and something shifted behind her eyes. Not just pride. Something heavier. Like relief. Like *belief*. “I got it. It’s good. Real good. They’ll love it.” Micah nodded, but the words caught in his throat. No one had ever told him something he made was “real good” before. He wanted to write that moment down, pin it to his chest like a badge. “I’m headin’ to the shop after this,” he said. “Old man Ramon wants me to start helping with the books. Says I got a head for numbers.” Miss Carla laughed. “You? Numbers?” “Yeah. Guess I ain’t just fists and fury anymore.” “No, baby. You never were.” He left the center as the sun started sinking. The block shimmered gold and orange, broken glass glowing like diamonds on the curb. He walked past the corner where he used to post up with Trey, talking tough and hiding fear. Past the alley where he threw his first punch just to prove he wouldn’t cry. Past the store where they caught him shoplifting cereal because there wasn’t anything at home. He stopped at his building. The steps creaked. The door stuck a little. Same as always. But inside — it was different. Jayla sat on the floor with crayons and construction paper. Auntie Rosa stirred a pot in the kitchen, humming old gospel. The TV buzzed low in the background. Home. Not fancy. Not spotless. But full. Micah dropped his bag and walked over to Jayla. “What you drawing?” he asked. “It’s you,” she said proudly, holding it up. “You got wings.” Micah stared at the picture. Him — with big, golden wings. A smile. Standing on top of the world. No chains. No bruises. Just light. He ruffled her hair. “You think I got wings?” “I *know* you do.” Later that night, after everyone was asleep, Micah sat by the window, notebook open, pen scratching. > *I used to think life was out to get me. That I’d never make it past the block, past the pain. But maybe the trick ain't escaping the storm — maybe it’s learning how to dance in the rain. Maybe it’s turning scars into verses. Maybe it’s telling your story loud enough that some other kid hears it and puts the gun down, picks a pen up.* He closed the book and looked out at the street. Somewhere down there, another kid was walking alone. Another Micah. Still in the middle of the hard part. Still waiting on hope. Maybe that kid didn’t know it yet. But he would. Because Micah had made it. Not all the way. Not yet. But far enough to know he could fly now. And this time? He wasn’t falling. THE END

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