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“These kids,” Mila gestured toward them with a proud tilt of her head, “they’re not just painting walls; they’re claiming their place in the cityscape.”
A young man stepped back from the mural, wiping sweat from his brow as he eyed his work critically.
“You think this’ll make a difference?” I asked him before I could stop myself.
He shot me a look that had seen too much and yet refused to surrender its spark. “Every time someone walks by and sees this instead of just another dirty alley… Yeah, it makes a difference.”
Mila’s smile was triumphant as she caught my gaze—a silent challenge that spoke louder than any words could.
The rest of the afternoon unfolded like chapters in an unwritten book—one I suddenly wanted to read cover to cover. I listened as Mila counseled a single mother about job opportunities and watched as she bandaged scraped knees with equal parts tenderness and efficiency.
Each person who walked through those doors was woven into the fabric of the place—each thread critical, none were disposable.
By the time we returned to the front steps, the sky had turned dusky pink and orange—a canvas worthy of any artist inside.
The last echoes of children’s laughter faded as the heavy door closed behind us. I stood there, on the steps of the community center, gazing back at the brick façade that seemed to pulse with the day’s energy. A strange tightness gripped my chest—a mix of conflict and clarity. The business in me saw numbers, projections, potential profits. But another part, a part I thought I’d buried under years of contracts and acquisitions, saw something invaluable.
Mila caught up to me, her eyes questioning under the softening sky. “You’re quiet,” she said. “What’s going through that head of yours?”
I turned to face her, taking in the flecks of paint on her hands, remnants of her engagement with the kids. “I’m just… taking it all in,” I admitted.
She folded her arms, a light shiver passing through her as the evening chill set in. “And?”
“And,” I hesitated, my gaze drifting to the mural we’d passed earlier. “I can’t help but see what you see.”
Mila’s eyes softened for a moment before she guarded herself again. “But?”
“But,” I sighed, running a hand through my hair, “I have investors to answer to, a board that expects results.”
She nodded slowly, understanding etched into the lines of her face. “Profit over people?” The question wasn’t accusatory; it was weary.
The internal tug-of-war was fierce—the part of me groomed for success against this raw, unfamiliar pull toward compassion. “Not necessarily,” I countered softly. “But change… progress… it comes at a cost.”
Mila stepped closer, bridging the gap between us with determined grace. “Is it progress if it destroys what makes a community thrive? What cost are you willing to live with?”
Her words struck home; they resonated within the walls I’d meticulously built around my conscience.
“I need more time,” I found myself saying, surprising even me with my hesitation.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mila
I squeezed a dollop of sky-blue paint onto the palette and handed it to Melody, her eyes alight with a creative fire. The daycare room’s walls were her canvas, transforming from dull, chipped beige to a landscape of vibrant dreams. “You sure you don’t want to add a stroke or two?” she teased, brandishing her brush like a sword ready for battle.
My laugh bounced off the walls, mingling with the sound of children’s laughter from the hallway. “I’ll leave the artistry to you. I’m more useful with a hammer or a spreadsheet.”
She dipped her brush and swept it across the wall, a streak of blue cutting through the emptiness. “We’re making this place beautiful, Mila. Brush or a hammer, doesn’t matter.”
Melody stepped back, assessing her work—a burgeoning mural of whimsical trees and playful animals. “It’s defiance in color. Every stroke is us telling that billionaire can’t erase what matters.”
A chuckle escaped me as I imagined Cassius’s face if he saw us now—covered in paint and dust, fueled by something he couldn’t buy or bulldoze. “If only passion was enough to save us.”
“It is,” Melody countered with unshakable faith. “It has to be.”
As we worked side by side, the room came alive—a testament to what we stood for. This small corner of our world wouldn’t go down without showing its true colors—literally.
“Hand me that green, will you?” Melody called over her shoulder, lost in her vision. “And start painting.”
