Ringo's death changed everything.
The police got involved. Of course they did. They put up tape, asked questions, scribbled notes. But it didn't take long to see what kind of case they thought it was. Black kid. Slum background. Rumored gang ties. It was the kind of story they'd heard too many times to care.
No witnesses. No camera footage. No public outcry. Just another body in a city that had learned how to bury things fast.
They called it gang violence, filed the report, and that was that. Within a week, the case had gone cold. Nobody came knocking anymore. No follow-ups. No detectives walking around the neighborhood. Just silence—the kind that settles over a place after something ugly has already happened.
A few days later, they buried Ringo.
There was no ceremony to speak of. Just a cheap coffin and a patch of dirt behind the local parish. The funeral was small: Esther, Samuel, a handful of boys, and the mastro who barely knew Ringo's name. No framed photo. No long goodbye. Just a final, heavy silence.
Esther stood at the edge of the grave, dressed in a black gown a size too big, her school shoes scuffed at the toes. She didn't speak. She didn't cry. She just held something in her hand—a silver cross, the same one they'd found around Ringo's neck. She clutched it like it could hold her together.
She was only fifteen.
Ringo hadn't been perfect. He was loud, short-tempered, always chasing some new thrill. But he looked out for Esther, made sure she had what she needed. That counted for something. Deep down, he wasn't as careless as he liked to act. He was just young.
Like all of them were—too young to be dead and buried like that.
Samuel hadn't said much that day, but the look in his eyes said more than words ever could. Ringo's death shook him, not just because of the way it happened, but because it made something painfully clear.
It could have been him.
One wrong turn. One bad deal. And his mother would be the one standing at a graveside. Samuel was her only child.
With Ringo gone, the boys lost their plug. Supply ran dry. The rhythm of things broke down. Everyone scrambled to find something new, somewhere else.
But not Samuel. Not anymore.
He started pulling away—slowly, carefully. He picked up small hustles again: odd jobs, phone repairs, errands for the mastro. And when he had something left over, he brought it home.
His mother had a little shop now, one she'd been working hard to grow. She made enough to keep the lights on, and with what Samuel brought in, they were okay. It wasn't much, but it was something. They wouldn't starve.
That was enough for now.
Esther was left in charge of what Ringo had—his account, the money he'd saved for her. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough. Enough to carry her through her final year of school.
She kept her head down. Went to class. Came home.
Samuel visited on weekends. Brought her snacks. Sometimes walked her home. Other times they just talked. They grew closer—not in a romantic way, not yet—but something deeper than that. A quiet understanding between two kids who had seen too much too young.
His old friends stayed in the streets. Some of them even tried to laugh off Ringo's death, chalk it up to bad luck.
But Samuel didn't laugh. Not anymore.
Little by little, they noticed the change. He still saw them sometimes, still hung out at the corner, tossed jokes around. But the space between them kept growing.
It was around that time Samuel's mother met someone.
He was a man in his late forties. He drove a silver sedan that didn't rattle and wore button-down shirts like he always had somewhere important to be.
He came into the shop one afternoon asking about getting a custom shirt made. He spoke politely, paid up front, and left with a smile. He came back a week later. Then the week after that.
Samuel noticed the way his mother laughed differently when the man was around. The way she took time to fix her hair. How she hummed while ironing his shirts. He hadn't seen her like that in years.
They started talking. Then dating.
Four or five months passed like a breeze, and one day she told Samuel they were moving in with him.
"He's good to me," she said. "He lives on the mainland. Nicer part of town."
Samuel didn't say much at first. He didn't know how to feel. His life was here—his people, Esther, the streets he knew by heart.
But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. They were surviving, sure, but just barely. Maybe this was their shot at something better.
Esther was heading off to college in a few months anyway. She'd be okay.
So Samuel packed his things and said goodbye to the boys. Some hugged him. Others just nodded like it was no big deal.
He talked with Esther one last time.
They didn't say much. They didn't need to.
She gave him a small box wrapped in newspaper. Inside was a cheap plastic keychain shaped like a guitar—one of Ringo's old things.
"Don't forget where you come from," she said.
He promised he wouldn't.
Then he got into the car beside his mother and watched the city peel away behind them.
The decision made sense at the time.
But looking back now—if you asked him, really asked him—he'd tell you the truth.
It was the biggest mistake of his life.