Night bled into the river's silver skin as the café emptied.They stood outside, laughter thinning to thought.
"Maybe we should find him," Jabari said. "Enzo."
Rashid's brow furrowed. "Does he even remember us?"
Kwame shrugged. "Maybe he forgot, like we almost did."
Malik exhaled. "We can't just pick up where we left off. We've got jobs, families. Life."
"But he was part of ours," Jabari said. "We owe him more than silence."
They didn't answer.
Later, under the heat-hazed moon, Jabari walked alone through the narrow streets.He stopped by a rusted lamppost and texted:
Do you think we did the right thing today?
Kwame:I don't know if it was right… but not trying would've been worse.
Across town, Malik helped his father to bed, eyes lingering on an old jersey nailed to the wall.Tariq typed slides beneath buzzing neon until his hands stilled on the keyboard.Rashid painted five figures, leaving one blank.Kwame played three notes that refused to end.
That night, Jabari's phone buzzed again—an unknown number.
I heard you're looking for Enzo.Tomorrow, 9 a.m., Café do Mercado.
He stared at the message, pulse loud in his ears.On his wall, a photo of six boys smiled into the dust of another summer.He whispered to it, "We're not done yet."