For the first time in years, Darius sat in a library.


It smelled like dust and ambition, full of people trying to rewrite their stories one form at a time. His hoodie was pulled low, his name scribbled onto a job application in black ink that looked like a bruise.


Construction. Warehouse. Security.


All of them required background checks. None of them cared about redemption.


The woman behind the desk glanced at his application.


“Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” she asked.


Darius hesitated. “Not yet.”


She didn’t smile.


But she handed him a pamphlet. “There’s a reentry program across the street. They help with job placement. Talk to Marla.”


He nodded. Took the paper.


Didn’t crumple it this time.


Later, he met with Marla.


Middle-aged, no-nonsense, Black woman in a purple blazer and natural curls.


“You Malik’s boy?” she asked, looking over her glasses.


Darius tensed. “Used to be.”


She sat back, arms crossed. “Then you know you got a reputation.”


“I’m tryna change that.”


Marla studied him. “Most don’t come in here unless they’re forced to.”


“I ain’t most.”


“No, you’re not,” she said. “You showed up. That’s a start. Sit down. Let’s build.”


Meanwhile, Maya was preparing for her next vendor event.


She sat at her table, organizing her “Reborn” line, but her mind wasn’t on the products—it was on the quiet way Darius had left the other night.


No anger. No games. Just truth.


She didn’t trust it yet.


But it stayed with her.


A part of her wanted to believe he meant it.


Not for her. For Zaire.


For himself.


She looked down at her workbench, at the glosses lined up like little testaments.


Then she added a new label to the next tube.


“Brick by Brick”


Because healing—like building—was slow, deliberate work.


And maybe… just maybe… Darius had started laying his first stone.