The city moved differently now.


It wasn’t just in the headlines—


Local Poetry Program Empowers Survivors.

Grassroots Healing Takes Root on the West Side.


It was in the way people looked at Tia.


Not like a girl they pitied.


Not like a woman they feared.


But like someone who stood.


Nova watched her work, watched her laugh again, watched her hold space like she was born to rebuild broken rooms.


And they knew—


She was no longer writing to survive.


She was writing to lead.


Tia’s next open mic felt like more than a set.


The room was full.


Devin and Darius stood in the back.


Maya brought Zaire.


Even Kareen from the first workshop came—hair dyed lavender, smile real.


Tia walked onstage without her notebook this time.


Only a silver chain around her neck and her name printed in bold on the flyer taped to every wall.


She took a breath.


Then spoke:


“Y’all been calling me a rose.

And I used to think that meant I had to be soft.

Had to bloom pretty.

Had to keep my thorns hidden.


But now I know—

I’m not your flower.

I’m not your metaphor.


I’m the damn soil.


And the roots?

They run deeper than you’ll ever understand.”


The crowd didn’t cheer immediately.


They stood.


Every single person.


No music. No clapping.


Just reverence.


Because some poems don’t end in applause.


They end in transformation.


Outside, Nova waited for her.


Tia stepped into the night air like she’d been born again.


Nova reached out, held her hand without speaking.


“You ready for the next chapter?” they asked.


Tia smiled, full and wide.


“Not just ready,” she said.

“I’m writing it.”