The past doesn't stay quiet in the hood.
It echoes — in sirens, sneakers on pavement, old songs humming through cracked windows.
And sometimes… in grief that doesn't want to fade.
Jamal hadn't walked past *TJ's house* since the funeral.
But one humid Saturday evening, with the sky bruised in purples and golds, he found himself standing in front of it.
The porch light was still broken. The screen door still leaned crooked. But there was something *missing* now.
The music.
TJ always played old school hip-hop loud — not to show off, but to *feel something familiar*. Without it, the block felt quieter… hollower.
Devon joined Jamal a few minutes later, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets.
"Feels like he might open that door and laugh at us standing here," he muttered.
Jamal nodded. "Yeah. But the door's not opening."
They stayed for a long while, saying nothing.
Until Devon finally asked, "You ever feel like... if we don't remember them loud enough, they'll disappear?"
Jamal turned to him. "That's what they want. For us to forget. For us to bury it all and call it normal."
"But it ain't," Devon said.
"No. And it never will be."
That night, they made a decision.
They wouldn't just paint murals.
They'd tell the stories — raw, unfiltered, and full of the fight it took to survive.
They launched a podcast from the center, called *"Echoes Don't Die."*
First episode?
*"TJ: More Than the Block."*
They brought in voices — friends, teachers, even TJ's little cousin who remembered his dance moves.
It wasn't clean.
It wasn't polished.
But it was *real*.
And the hood listened.
A week later, they got a message.
A youth center in Atlanta had played the episode.
Another in Oakland reached out asking to collaborate.
The hood wasn't just healing — it was *connecting*.
TJ's echo wasn't fading.
It was traveling.