The town didn't always look like this.
That was what the older people said, at least. They spoke of brighter streets, of laughter that carried through open windows, of nights where fear didn't lock every door before sunset. Frank listened to those stories the way one listens to myths—half-believing, half-aware they might never have been real.
Now the town felt tired.
Buildings leaned like old men with bad knees. Paint peeled. Streetlights flickered as if unsure whether it was worth staying on. People walked fast, eyes forward, shoulders tight. No one lingered. No one stood still unless they had to.
Frank noticed things others ignored.
He noticed how silence followed certain names.
He noticed how arguments died the moment footsteps approached.
He noticed how hope had learned to whisper.
At school, the teachers taught lessons from worn books, their voices flat, as though even knowledge had lost its excitement. Students learned early that dreaming too loudly invited disappointment. Frank kept his dreams folded neatly inside himself, untouched and unseen.
On his walk home, he passed the corner where a mural once tried to be beautiful. Most of it had been scrubbed away, but one word remained, cracked and fading:
BELIEVE
Frank stopped there sometimes. He didn't know why.
He would stare at that word and feel something stir in his chest—something uncomfortable. Belief felt dangerous. Belief led to standing up. And standing up, in this town, usually meant falling hard.
Still, he couldn't look away.
One evening, as clouds bruised the sky purple and gray, an old man sat near the mural, humming softly. His eyes met Frank's, sharp despite his age.
"This place eats brave boys," the man said, as if continuing a conversation already started.
Frank froze. "I didn't say anything."
"You don't have to," the man replied. "Your eyes do."
Frank swallowed. "What happened to this town?"
The old man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "People stopped standing."
Frank walked away with that sentence echoing behind him.
He didn't know it yet, but the town hadn't forgotten hope.
It had just been waiting.
And one day—sooner than Frank imagined—it would remember his name.