"You're going to change things, baby," he had said, gripping her shoulders with pride. "You're going to fix what the world broke."
A lump tightened in her throat, because that world never came. Or it came and left too fast.
She could still see the hospital waiting room where she sat as nurses whispered words she didn't want to understand; where the doctor spoke gently to her mother; where she watched her future crumble in the space of a phone call. After her father passed, everything collapsed: bills piling up, scholarship threatened, her mother's health failing, Isaiah's hearing deteriorating faster than they expected. She had made a choice, the only choice she could: withdraw from school and work full-time.
But the dream had never fully died. It lay beneath the dust, waiting, aching.
Her bus finally pulled up with a squeal of brakes. She boarded, brushing snow from her shoulders, and found a seat by the window. The city blurred by: brick buildings, graffiti murals, barbershops, families bundled in coats crossing streets slick with ice. Normal. Ordinary. And yet she felt cracked open by memory.
When she arrived home, Isaiah was sitting cross-legged on the rug, tapping a rhythm into the floor with his fingers. He looked up when she walked in, his smile warm enough to thaw her cold hands.
"Hey," she said softly, kneeling beside him. "You practicing beats again?"
He nodded enthusiastically and signed, "Music feels good even when I can't hear it right."
Her chest tightened. Isaiah had always found ways to create beauty despite what he lacked. It humbled her.
Later that evening, as she prepared to head back to Carrington Plaza, she found herself pausing at the mirror by the door. The uniform felt heavier than usual, like it carried every assumption people made about her. She touched her reflection lightly.
"You're more than they see," she whispered. But the words felt fragile.
On the train ride downtown, she watched the city shift from worn brick to gleaming towers. The closer she got to the Plaza, the more the air changed—crisper, colder, as if wealth carried its own climate. She stepped into the lobby, its marble floors shining brighter than her apartment's entire block. Her shoes squeaked slightly against the polished surface.
As she cleaned the upper floors, she tried to avoid the 52nd, but work orders didn't care about feelings. She eventually found herself back in that hallway, her cart rolling quietly beside her. The memory of last night clung to the shadows. She reached Evan's office door and hesitated, heart thumping. The door was shut. Light glowed faintly from underneath, but she heard nothing.
She pushed the bathroom door open instead and began wiping counters, her movements stiff. Halfway through, the main office door opened and she heard footsteps. Her pulse jumped. She kept her eyes on her work, praying no one would speak to her.
"Naomi?" a voice called gently.