Spring arrived early in Southside—bringing with it warmth, color, and a buzz in the air that hadn't been felt in years.
At the community center, Jaylen stood at a long fold-out table draped in cloth, arranging plates of food with the kids. Jollof rice. Mac and cheese. Empanadas. Fried plantains. Sazón and soul on every plate.
Today wasn't a fundraiser. It wasn't a program.
It was dinner.
For everyone.
**A seat at the table**—that's what Jaylen called it. No microphones, no announcements. Just the community breaking bread, shoulder to shoulder.
Rico showed up again. Quiet. Hesitant. This time, Tyrell pulled out a chair beside him.
"No talking," he said. "Just eat."
Rico chuckled, sat, and reached for a plate.
The mayor even stopped by—media in tow, of course. But when she saw the energy in the room, the cameras stayed down. She sat next to Ms. Davis, the oldest resident on the block, and asked her how she liked her cornbread.
"Too sweet," Ms. Davis said, "but I ain't complaining."
That night, Zaria recorded a live podcast episode from the center:
> "This isn't a story about what we survived," she said into the mic. "It's a story about what we *built.* About kids turned leaders. About abandoned lots turned safe havens.
>
> They said Southside had nothing to offer.
>
> They were wrong.
>
> We have *each other.*"
Applause rippled through the room.
Jaylen looked around at the faces—young, old, tough, tired, hopeful.
He didn't need a mansion. Or a record deal. Or fame.
This was success.
This *was* the dream.
And it was only just beginning.