The morning sun warmed Avalon's front windows, gleaming off the shelves like a silent blessing.
It was still early—just past seven—but the bodega had already come to life. The coffee machine gurgled with purpose, and the smell of fresh bagels from the corner supplier mixed with the tang of citrus cleaner and cinnamon gum.
John Cruz stood near the back wall, leaning on a mop, quietly observing.
Lorna was behind the counter, one elbow resting lazily on the surface as she swayed gently to a muffled indie pop track from the store's Bluetooth speaker. Her shimmering aurora hair caught light in threads of mint and lilac as she handed exact change to a sleepy cabbie and offered him a small packet of mints "on the house."
She worked like she'd been born here—laughing softly, efficient, watchful without being cold. She never overstepped, never made a mess, never asked for praise.
She simply… belonged.
John watched for a while, quietly proud.
She caught him looking.
"What?" she smirked. "Afraid I'm stealing Skittles?"
John shook his head. "You're too clean to steal Skittles. You'd rob the whole supplier."
"Damn right I would," she said with mock pride, then tossed him a protein bar. "Breakfast. Now go be broody somewhere else."
He caught it mid-air, grunted his thanks, and walked toward the back stairwell.
Today was a different kind of workday.
The third floor had waited long enough.
John stepped into the quiet hallway where the walls were still half-bare, the furniture covered with drop cloths, the smell of old dust lingering despite earlier cleanings. Boxes sat stacked near the corners, labeled in careful black marker:
FAMILY PHOTOS
TOOLS - ARCHIVE
VHS TAPES
MISC. – ALTHEA
He crouched by the largest box and gently opened it.
Time spilled out.
The first was a photograph—faded, but unmistakable. A young woman, his mother, holding a toddler—him—on her hip. She had her long black hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a wide smile that lit up the room even in grayscale.
Behind them, an old Avalon sign—painted by hand—leaned crookedly in the window of a fully stocked bodega.
Another photo: his father, arms crossed, standing in front of the basement workbench. No smile. But there was purpose in his eyes. Tools scattered behind him. Blueprints tacked to the wall.
Then a picture of all three—taken in the second-floor kitchen. The table was covered in birthday streamers. A cake sat slightly off-center, crooked candles lit. His mother was caught mid-laugh. His father, leaning in awkwardly. And he, a small boy, already gripping a toy wrench in his pudgy hand.
John stared at the photo longer than the others.
He hadn't remembered this. Not clearly. But seeing it stirred something—not quite a memory, but a recognition.
This was love. This was home.
He moved to the box of VHS tapes. One in particular was labeled with sharp block letters:
JOHN'S 5TH BIRTHDAY – 1990
There was a VCR in the corner—older than some of the streetlights outside, but still plugged in. He popped in the tape, set the TV on a milk crate, and pressed play.
The screen came to life with static, then color.
Music played—a soft Tagalog ballad.
The camera was slightly shaky but showed a kitchen table, candles flickering.
His mother sang.
His father, behind the camera, laughed. "Hold still, Johnny—don't eat the frosting yet!"
And there he was: tiny, impatient, grinning with a mouth full of sugar and innocence.
The room was warm. The kind of warmth you could feel even through flickering VHS static.
John sat down.
And cried quietly into his hand.
That afternoon, he set up a memorial on the second floor.
In the hallway near the stairwell, where sunlight fell against the wall every morning, he cleared a small section.
He framed three photos:
His family at the table—mid-laughter.
His mother holding him on her hip outside the bodega.
His father behind the workbench, eyes steady.
Below them, he placed a wooden shelf, polished and clean. A small candle. A silver placard:
Always Home.
It wasn't grand. But it was perfect.
When Lorna came upstairs later and saw it, she stopped in place.
"They look… kind," she said softly.
"They were," John replied. "They didn't have a lot. But they gave everything."
She reached out and gently touched the frame with the birthday scene. "You're lucky to have this. Most people don't even have a photo."
"I didn't. Not until now."
The rest of the third floor had potential.
He moved the family memory corner to the eastern side, near the old TV setup, and began clearing the western side for something else: a gym.
John needed space to move—to train.
The gym wasn't meant for show. It was functional. Simple. Discreet.
He laid out mats he ordered from a martial arts supply warehouse. Repaired the floor supports beneath an old steel beam to anchor a heavy punching bag. Installed a wall mirror and rolled in a set of adjustable weights.
He stacked practice pads, resistance bands, even a foam dummy.
His body still remembered the rhythm of fighting—the weight shifts, the guard transitions, the economy of movement—but his endurance needed work.
Every morning before the shop opened, he'd train. Quietly. Alone.
Because staying sharp wasn't just about protection.
It was about discipline.
Later that week, as he organized the basement's new storage corner, he heard movement upstairs—Lorna arguing with a soda supplier about delivery times.
She was sharp. Efficient.
And doing it all for free.
John blinked.
Then slapped himself on the forehead.
That evening, he handed her a small envelope during dinner.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Your first paycheck."
Her eyes widened. "You're paying me?"
"You've been running Avalon like it's yours."
"But I—" She hesitated, visibly uncomfortable. "I didn't do it for money."
"I know. That's why it matters."
She opened the envelope and saw the amount—minimum wage, standard bodega worker rate.
She blinked twice.
"John… you didn't have to…"
"I did," he said firmly. "Because this isn't charity. You've earned it."
She ran a hand through her hair, which glowed faintly under the kitchen light.
"I don't know what to do with it," she mumbled.
"Whatever you want," he said. "Buy music. Clothes. Start saving. Get a haircut. Or don't. It's yours."
She sniffed and looked away. "You're gonna make me cry, and I hate that."
He just leaned back and took a sip of tea.
"Then spend it before I change my mind."
That night, John stood on the third floor, breathing in the silence.
On one side: the small family memorial—three photos, soft candlelight.
On the other: a gym space that smelled of fresh vinyl and quiet resolve.
Beneath him, Avalon thrummed—stocked, steady, safe.
And in a small locked compartment in the basement, behind tools and concrete, the weight of his father's legacy waited in silence.
John didn't know what the future held.
He just knew this much:
He wasn't just rebuilding a building anymore.
He was building a life.