The night Devon stayed was quiet. He didn't talk much, but he didn't leave either.
The next morning, Jamal found him sitting on the back steps of the center, watching the sunrise.
"Couldn't sleep?" Jamal asked.
Devon shrugged. "Ain't used to peace."
Jamal sat beside him. "Neither were we—until we built it."
Inside, Rico was already hammering new floorboards in the hallway. A few kids from the neighborhood showed up early, backpacks slung, offering to help.
Devon watched them through the open door. "They listen to you."
"They see hope," Jamal said. "Not in me—just in the fact that I didn't quit."
Devon nodded slowly. "I don't know what I see yet."
"Then start by looking in a mirror," Jamal said, getting up. "We've all got scars. Doesn't mean we can't walk forward."
Later that day, Jamal handed Devon a hammer.
"Let's fix the broken boards in the reading room."
Devon hesitated, then took it. "I used to break stuff like this."
"Then it's time to rebuild."
Each swing of the hammer seemed to chip away at more than just rotting wood. Devon began talking—about the years on the street, the guilt, the fear. Jamal listened. No judgment. Just space.
That evening, the kids painted their handprints on one wall—signatures of the future. Devon stood back, watching. Then, quietly, dipped his hand in red paint and left a print just above Jamal's.
First steps.