Two weeks later, Darius walked out of the hospital slower than he walked in—but stronger.


He carried no gun. No chain. Just a folder of business paperwork tucked under his arm.


The reentry program offered him a warehouse position—with room to move up.


He took it.


And every day, he showed up early. Kept his head down. Came home to a mattress on the floor and peace he’d never had before.


The first thing he bought with his first full check?


A twin-size bed for Zaire.


Meanwhile, Maya’s “Reborn” line was now featured in three local boutiques. Her story had gone semi-viral again after someone at the hospital filmed her wheeling Darius out with Zaire holding his hand.


The caption read:


“From the block to the bloom — even thorns have roots.”


She didn’t correct the narrative.


She just kept building.


Because healing wasn’t a one-time act.


It was daily.


Darius visited Rawls on the first clear Sunday in March.


The old man sat in his chair as always, watching the block like a guardian with no armor left to wear.


“You still alive,” Rawls said without looking.


“Still soft too,” Darius replied.


“That ain’t a weakness, boy. It’s proof you ain’t numb no more.”


Darius handed him the folder.


Rawls raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”


“Proof of ownership. I’m buying the old rec center lot.”


Rawls finally looked at him.


“You?”


“Me. Marla and Devin helped me write the proposal. I’m gonna flip it. Youth programs. Free meals. Job placement.”


“You sure the block ready for that?”


Darius smirked.


“No. But I am.”