It’s happening.
After all this time, it’sactuallyhappening.
Between orders and endless emails, Naomi’s ready to show me the new branding and web revamp she’s been working on that’s ready to launch with a single click. Something sleek and professional, a visual representation of everything we’ve poured into this project.
I sip my coffee, savoring its warmth against the steady, reassuring rhythm of productivity. Each document feels like another brick in the foundation of something meaningful.
Like we’re finally making an impact.
Across from me, Naomi taps furiously at her laptop. “Logos and socials are prepped, and the site will be live by tomorrow morning. Lunch at the latest.”
“You’re a genius,” I murmur, scanning our supply list.
She smirks. “Make sure to tell my academic advisor that at the end of the semester.”
“You got it,” I say and laugh, light, because for the first time in years, it feels like these plans I’ve been daydreaming of are finally aligning. I clip the construction timeline to a clipboard, crosspick up permitsoff my calendar, and breathe.
Then my phone rings, slicing through my focus. I glance at the screen:City Hall.
I pause, unease tightening in my stomach as I pick up. “Full Bloom.”
A clipped voice on the other end. “Mr. Wilder?”
“Yes?”
“I’m calling because”—there’s a brief, uncomfortable pause, the silence heavy with bureaucratic detachment—“the city’s funding for your project has been revoked. Effective immediately.”
What?
I blink, the words colliding senselessly in my head, the meaning dissolving before I can fully grasp it.
“I—wait, what?” My throat goes dry. “That…that doesn’t make sense, I have the signed agreements. I’m picking up the permits this afternoon.”
A longer pause.
“I’m sorry, but the permits will not be issued. Budget committee cited emergency repairs to municipal facilities,” the voice drones. “Due to this reallocation of resources, there’s been a temporary freeze on discretionary grants. The funding is no longer available.”
Reallocation of resources.
It’s a sucker punch, the air ripped from my lungs leaving me weightless, waiting for the world to right itself.
Naomi notices immediately, her voice cutting through the fog around me. “Levi?”
But she fades to the background. My fingers grip the phone tighter. “But wesecuredthat funding. This was approved. We havesigned agreements,” I say, steadier than I feel. “Vendors lined up. Volunteers scheduled.”
“I understand,” the voice replies, coldly professional. The tone of someone who absolutely does not understand…and doesn’t need to.
“This isn’t fair,” I snap, my pulse pounding. “This project isn’t just mine. This is for the community. For families. For the people who need it.”
Silence.
And then, with the kind of rehearsed indifference that makes me want to say something, they say—
“I’m sorry.”
The line goes dead, leaving me silence, my dreams crumbling between my fingers.
I stand there, gripping my phone, breath shallow, stomach twisting.
