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Chapter 100 - Chapter 102 - Eviction notice

Chapter 102

- Micah -

The day came when the governor arrived to survey the neighborhood. The sky was too blue, with not a cloud in sight to mask the corrupt politics. 

This all felt like a lie. A scheme to make us happy for a short amount of time. Like a velvet stage curtain cloaking the city to distract from the real performance happening behind it, the scenes. The council plays the part when one of the actors forgets one of their lines and falls back. And the governor is the director who has long since stopped caring about the art; they're just ready to get paid and move on.

I stood outside the bakery, hands wrapped around a to-go cup of warm spiced chai, watching as the sleek black cars rolled up one by one. Then, the limo came through the heart of the neighborhood.

People stopped to look at this strange, overly hyped setting. Some waved. Others just stared.

The governor's entourage looked so out of place. Too polished and kept up. As if they had been warned to sanitize their shoes before stepping onto our streets and into our lives.

A man opened the door to the limo, and out stepped the governor, just as polished as the rest, if not more. Photo ops covered him. The press was already waiting with cameras at every angle. His smile is a cheap, fake smile, like he probably rehearsed it daily in front of a mirror.

He put on a show as he waved and nodded to Uncle as he walked over to us, as if he wanted the world to witness his charity. 

"What an ego," Kaysi muttered under her breath to no one but me in earshot. 

Uncle won't just stand as a witness; he plays a role. He can't keep us and his plans in the shadows anymore. We will bring them to the light. Our plan was to show him the stories of our little town, its history. 

"Governor Price," Uncle greeted, voice relaxed.

"Mr. Monk, the bakery owner, I presume. You are our escort—correct?

Uncle nodded back. "Yes, and in this town, we hope you see who lives here and who laughs here. Who built every place brick by brick with calloused hands? You may see a zone. We see a legacy. I only hope you will see it too."

Kaysi and Evan stood on each side of me, quiet but present. Becky and Josh handled press and wrangled with crowd control, while James stayed quietly in the background, filming everything for evidence and in case the officials skipped something in their narratives.

We began our walk downtown. No speeches, just a slow, steady pace. Down the streets, the governor had only seen on proposed maps. 

He didn't say anything at first, just observed and asked a few questions that felt restricted. Every now and then, she nodded when appropriate. The deeper we went, the more the homes were boarded up and 'For Sale' signs were posted in the yards, along with the confused eyes of long-time residents, clearly blindsided by their landlords. The more he saw, the quieter he became.

"At the corner of Cherry and Jefferson," he added. That's where the eviction list is starting."

Kaysi's ears animated. "I remembered something ... I once lived there until the college bought our home out from us and chased us off."

For my heart's sake. Another memory came back to her, but not a good one.

"You knew about that? I asked the governor.

He didn't answer me. He just turned away, pretending to study a mural painted by local children 3 years ago. One of the figures looked somewhat like me and my uncle. I wondered if he noticed.

Uncle stopped at the next intersection just before making it back to the bakery. "You said you wanted a revitalized city, "but without its people, it's not progress, it's a conquest."

The governor folded his arms. "Funding has to be allocated to areas that are... sustainable. Communities generate growth."

"Sustainable?" Uncle echoed, his voice dangerously calm. "I think you meant to say profitable."

"Well, Mr. Monk, to be fair, we must think about the future."

Uncle stepped forward. "Then think about this—

When my daughter died, this community nourished us for several weeks. Not only with food. With presence. With care. I started this bakery when she was a little girl, inspired by her regular tea parties and the pleasure she found in sharing something delicious with others. It became our routine—I'd get home from work, and she'd be waiting with imaginary cups and genuine laughs. We opened this bakery because we believed in returning what had been freely given. And for decades, we've done precisely that.

We train teenagers. We support displaced workers. We keep an eye on the older man who forgets his own address but still comes here for pie every Friday. We have funerals, marriages, birthdays, and reunions all in one little space. And when one of our own appears late on rent, it is the neighbors, not the banks, who come calling. That is a sustainable city. That is a worthwhile future investment.

This little shop helped me survive grief—and not just mine, but the grief of this entire community. After my daughter passed, people came here not just for bread and coffee, but for healing. This bakery isn't just a business. It's a sanctuary. And what happens to a people when you gut their sanctuaries?"

He glanced at the governor. "You think you're walking through a dead neighborhood, but these people are fighting for air. They're not just statistics on a chart. They're survivors. Artists. Teachers. Grandmothers who keep the block from unraveling. You pave over that and call it progress? Then you're not fit to lead."

Uncle looked around and added, "I've seen what happens to cities when developers gut the soul out of them. It's not just about new condos and gourmet restaurants. It's about who gets to stay and who gets cast aside. I've buried more neighbors than I care to count because they couldn't afford to live in the place they were born. That kind of change? That's not evolution. That's extinction."

Just then, from across the street, a group of rowdy teenagers shouted. "Don't sell us out!" 

Police tensed. One teenager threw a shoe, not aimed at anyone, to make a point of being seen and heard.

We stood our ground, but the governor did not seem to flinch—I did see a twitch in his jaw.

Behind us, the press stayed quiet, perhaps stunned by the rawness in Uncle's usually calm voice.

No matter what we threw at the governor, he remained unyielding.

 The governor shivered back into his car with a few final words.

"I'll review the allocations," he said, "but I won't make any promises. Cuts will happen. There's no scenario without pain."

He turned in his seat, shut the door, and rolled down the window—and added one more statement as if an afterthought.

"Mr. Monk Change is coming whether people are ready or not. Best to get on the right side of it."

We watched as he rolled up his window and drove away.

No handshakes exchanged—no assurances to hold.

Just silence.

Then the messages began—one by one. Phones are buzzing in pockets.

First was Mrs. Ryu, then the single mother who ran the food cart. Then, an older couple, Uncle and Aunt, helped every winter. 

Notices of eviction.

One block. Then three.

Kaysi checked her phone and cursed. "They're not wasting time nor sparing anyone."

James walked up, eyes wide. "It's spreading. This isn't just a test area. It's city-wide."

I looked up toward the sky, now graying at the edges. A storm was coming.

Something about the way the governor had stared at us before he left…

There was something else. Something cold and calculating.

Later, we'd learn he wasn't acting alone. That he and the mayor—his old friend—had bigger plans. They didn't just want to modernize the city; they also wanted to transform it. They wanted to reshape it, leading the people to a "new world" built on wealth, image, and power. The same message that the demon-possessed man on the train spouted. 

And they'd destroy anyone who stood in the way.

They called it revitalization. But it was gentrification under a new name. Suburbanization, decentralization, and whispers of investments from "outside" companies who only saw numbers, not neighborhoods. It mirrored every broken promise we'd ever heard about building a better city. And, like so many before us, we were the ones asked to pay the price.

The final text came from James, who read.

They posted the eviction list. It isn't good.

I looked at Uncle. He didn't say a word.

He didn't need to.

This wasn't the end.

It was the beginning of our fight.

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