One late afternoon, after his first shift helping in the mailroom, Jace sat with Harlan in a small break room.
“I do not know what to say,” Jace confessed. “I am not special.”
“You are,” Harlan said. He poured tea with hands steadier than they had been in weeks. “Not because of what you found. Because of how you chose to act.”
“It does not feel like enough,” Jace admitted.
“It never will,” Harlan answered. “But it is a beginning.”
Outside, the sun glinted off the building’s mirrored windows. Jace watched his reflection in the glass and barely recognized himself. He looked less like a stray shadow and more like someone who might have a future.
He thought of the dumpster, the torn bag, the envelope with its unfamiliar weight. He thought of the choice he made, one that felt small at the time but had tilted the world in a different direction.
“There is something I still want,” Jace said quietly.
“What is that?” Harlan asked.
“For the next kid who finds something they think matters. I want them to believe it is worth speaking up.”
Harlan nodded slowly. “Then help me build a place where they can.”
