The mural was the first thing Sarah saw when she stepped through the youth center's doors.
A sweep of colors spiraled across the entrance wall: linked hands, radiant suns, stylized trees reaching toward a skyline of glowing rooftops. In the center, a bold word painted in wide arcs—"Rise."
Jenny stood beside her, shoulder to shoulder.
"That's new," Sarah murmured.
Jenny nodded. "Painted last month. They let some of the kids design it. Every handprint in that sun? That's someone who's walked through here."
Sarah's eyes found the smudge of red at the mural's edge, a small handprint overlapping a blue one. Something in it grounded her.
Today didn't feel like a test. It felt like permission.
The air inside was warmer than she expected. Not temperature—tone. The sound of muffled laughter, the squeak of rubber soles on polished linoleum, the clatter of a dropped pencil. It was the sound of a place that breathed.
⸻
The front desk welcomed them with laminated forms, a coffee-scented pen, and a clipboard that felt heavier than it looked. Sarah took it.
"Just your name, contact info, and availability for now," the coordinator said. She smiled, lines around her eyes deepening. "We're grateful you're here. Really."
Sarah nodded, fingers trembling just slightly as she wrote.
The clipboard shook.
Jenny reached out without a word, steadying the edge.
⸻
Mia watched from across the street, half-obscured behind a bus shelter ad. The glass reflected sunlight unevenly, and she had to tilt her head just so to keep sight of the door.
But she didn't blink when Sarah walked in.
Her breath had caught for just a second.
And now, it let go.
She adjusted her stance, shifted the strap of her bag, and smiled to herself—barely.
⸻
Inside, Sarah handed back the clipboard. The coordinator took it with a nod and gestured toward the hallway.
"Jenny can show you around," she said. "But I'll be here if you need anything. Oh, and—" she reached under the desk "—this came in this morning. For the bulletin board. Mind pinning it up for me?"
She handed Sarah a developed photograph.
It took Sarah a moment to register what it was: a moment captured at the block party. A child swinging a ribbon stick in front of a crowded food stall. In the background, laughter. Balloons.
And just past the edge of the canopy, blurred and mostly hidden—
A figure.
Half obscured. Head tilted down.
Watching.
Something about it scratched at her memory.
She nodded and turned toward the wall of announcements.
⸻
The hallway smelled faintly of crayon wax and lemon cleaner. Each door held hand-painted signs: "Reading Nook," "Music Zone," "Workshop Room." Laughter spilled from the far end, where someone had drawn chalk footprints that twisted in loop-de-loops.
Jenny gave Sarah space. Let her linger. Let her listen.
Let her want to stay.
And she did.
Sarah stopped in front of a door labeled Listening Room. Inside, two kids sat cross-legged on bean bags, headphones on, eyes closed. Soft music leaked through the cracked door.
A flyer on the wall listed upcoming discussion groups—story exchange, journal making, breathing workshops.
It wasn't loud. Or shiny. But it was real.
⸻
Mia crossed to the side of the building, found the angle that let her see the window to the community room.
She didn't need to stay long.
Just enough to see Sarah reappear, thumbtacking the photo into the corkboard, head tilted, gaze unreadable.
Then Sarah turned.
Smiled at someone.
And walked forward.
The moment settled into Mia's lungs like warmth.
⸻
Inside, Sarah returned to the desk. The volunteer coordinator checked a list.
"Looks like we've added you to Friday afternoon rotations," she said. "You'll start with reading hour. Kids mostly pick picture books or sit in quiet corners. You don't need to lead—just be there."
Sarah nodded. That, she could do.
The coordinator slid a folded schedule across the counter.
At the bottom, in careful script, her name had been added.
Sarah read it once.
Then again.
Then tucked it into her pocket.
⸻
She followed Jenny down a narrow hallway toward the back. The mural from the front echoed here in smaller sketches—sunbursts on lockers, names etched in paper flowers, corners of collaged mirrors.
One panel caught her attention: a framed piece titled "I Stayed."
A collection of anonymous handwritten notes. Some in marker, others in pencil. None signed.
Because I wasn't alone.
Because someone said 'stay.'
Because someone drew me a map.
Sarah's breath hitched. She leaned closer.
Jenny waited.
Then said quietly, "People leave things behind here. Stories. Messages. If you ever want to write one, there's always space."
Sarah nodded. Her fingers brushed the glass.
⸻
Outside, Mia paced once. Then opened her notebook.
She drew a small version of the center's mural.
Then beneath it, wrote:
Anchor planted.
Entry confirmed.
Shadow radius: reduce.
She folded the notebook shut.
And, for the first time in days, didn't immediately open it again.
⸻
That evening, Sarah sat alone in the Listening Room, now empty.
On her lap, a blank page.
She hesitated. Then picked up a marker from the basket beside her.
She didn't write a full story.
Just one sentence.
She tore the page neatly and added it to the small tray beneath the display.
Because something waited for me.
She pressed it flat.
Then stood.
And smiled.