The wind outside howled like a siren, yet inside the abandoned rec center, it was dead quiet—too quiet for a place that once echoed with basketballs, laughter, and dreams. Now, the only echo left was the one inside Jamal's head.
He stood in the middle of the court, the faded white lines barely visible under years of dust and grime. He could still remember his first three-pointer here—how Coach T had clapped him on the back, yelling, *"That's how you do it, kid!"* The memories were ghosts now, haunting each step he took.
Behind him, the door creaked open. It was Rico.
"You good, bro?" Rico's voice cut through the silence.
Jamal nodded slowly. "I had to come back here… I needed to remember."
Rico looked around, hands in his hoodie pockets. "Ain't much left to remember, man."
"That's the point," Jamal said. "This place used to give us something. A shot. Now it's just…" he trailed off, rubbing his fingers together like he could still feel the leather of a ball.
Rico leaned against the wall. "We can build something new, you know. Different maybe, but real."
Jamal looked up. "How? When everything we had is gone?"
Rico pulled a folded paper from his pocket. "Not everything. I've been writing something—a proposal. A youth project. We get funding, fix up this place, bring it back."
Jamal blinked. "You serious?"
Rico nodded. "I'm done just surviving. I want to build."
Jamal took the paper, reading silently. His chest tightened, but it wasn't fear—it was hope. Real, raw hope.
Outside, the wind still howled. But inside, for the first time in years, a new kind of echo was forming. Not of loss—but of possibility.