Chapter 101
- Micah -
I was the first to walk through the door. The bell above the bakery door jingled as I stepped in, cradling the weight of last night's meeting with the Waymakers like a second coat, heavy and warming in strange ways that gave the essence of hope. I took a deep breath as I sat by the window, where the warmth of the early-approaching sun beamed in—delicious cinnamon aroma burnt into my nostrils.
Josh, Becky, Kaysi, James, and Evan slowly came in one by one and took their seats. Some of them were still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, but they were still sharp with purpose. Uncle came out from behind the counter, cleaning his hands with a towel. He was quietly arranging pastries in prep for opening later. He was a steady anchor for all of us.
The dining area was mainly dark, except for a golden heat lamp over the counter, where trays of rising dough rested under towels. Uncle moved like a shadow behind the counter, precise and quiet, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. For an older gentleman who rolled dough as his only form of exercise, he had decent muscle tone. He gave me a look—as though he gave a full conversation without ever speaking—then nodded toward the back room.
Everyone quickly took their positions. Evan was setting up chairs for us. Kaysi was scribbling ideas on the chalkboard that had previously been reserved for seasonal advertisements. Becky leaned over the table, reading an article on her phone. James was cross-legged with his laptop open. Josh was leaning near the espresso machine, his arms folded, staring at a map he had spread across a few tables he had pulled together.
"We're still calling it the city's Beautification project," Kaysi muttered in a scoff, underlining her displeasement. "What they are really going to do is gut the soul out of this neighborhood.
I sat down across from her, nodding. "Have they finalized the development plans for zoning?" I asked her.
Becky flipped her screen around so we could see the web page. "Mostly Bellridge Hill, Spencher Ball Park, and the trails behind the school. It's all one phase. They've already started bringing in the fencing and clearing trees."
"They're not asking for permission," Evan said. "They're moving like it's already been voted on."
Uncle entered, wiping his hands on a towel, nodding at the map and chalkboard. "The plans look good. But don't neglect the core of why we are doing this. It's the heart of the people." If you're going to stand against something, you must remember what you're standing for."
We were all quiet as he spoke, not just because we respected him, but also because his words resonated deeply in our minds.
"We can host a gathering," Kaysi advised. "Let people speak and tell their stories; hear their side. Get everything out before the governor has the board meeting at the summit."
"I volunteer to walk the district. I blurted, " I want to collect information from the locals, the shopkeeper, and teachers—most of all, the families who've lived here longer than half the buildings themselves.
By noon, we were two and a half miles into the neighborhood. Uncle and I moved slowly. He knew everyone, and they knew him as well. He was a local legend. That's one of the things that's great about this place. We weren't just a collection of houses. We were a string of people stitched together through our history. Uncle knew every thread.
Mrs. Woo-Sung ran a daycare on Oak Street. She spoke about how the parents could no longer afford rent, as land values had increased since the announcement of the construction.
Sean, the barbershop owner, said his landlord was pushing him out early, breaking their contract for "renovations," he said, gesturing air quotes.
When we walked past the park to see how things were coming along, a couple of teenagers saw us serving the area. They jokingly asked if their park was getting paved over, but the look in their eyes said they already knew the answer. The dad came up and smacked his son in the back of the head and made him apologize for messing around.
"Every time they say 'revitalize,' I lose a neighbor," one woman said.
Uncle nodded, absorbing every word, his hand on his chin; he didn't speak much. He didn't have to; he heard each of them and took their concerns seriously.
That night, the bakery was transformed. Tables were pushed to the side, and chairs lined up facing the front counter, where Uncle stood like an anchor. The smell of sweet breads and apple cider floated under the humming of the overhead lights. Word had spread fast. People from all parts of the community and neighborhood showed up, including teachers, first responders, business owners, and homeowners. All ages were represented, from families with newborn children to elders who had been there for many generations.
"We are not here to protest," Uncle's voice boomed over the crowd as they fell silent. "We're here to preserve. To speak for ourselves and others. To be remembered. I want you all to share your thoughts."
One by one, they stood and voiced their opinions.
Mr. Ryu, who taught third grade for over thirty years, spoke of his time in this town. A single mom who ran a food cart that donated leftovers to shelters and the homeless shares how her family's lives, as well as her own, have been impacted since moving here. A former troubled student. Who used to hang out on the bakery's back steps after school? Told how he learned the town's culture and how it guided his steps. Even Becky shared about Kaysi and her getting a job working at the shop. What was supposed to be a temporary measure to help Kaysi's struggling family level out became a regular source of enjoyment and relief in everyday life. Even now, after Kaysi lost her memories, this place continues to provide comfort to her and many others.
Then it was my turn. I was last. I stood up without a second thought, ready.
"They don't see 'us,'" I said, sharing quietly. "Not really. They see graphs, property lines, and economic forecasts. But I see hands holding on to one another. I see stories of rich history that built this town. I see the way this place supports people, even when they have nowhere else to go or where to turn."
It was quiet for a moment after.
Then applause from everyone just as we closed up the bakery with my last speech.
The next morning, we formed together and went to the city summit. There, a building downtown held a marble-gray auditorium. It felt too clean, too cold. It smelled of new carpet and ambition, as if it were made for heartless individuals.
Kaysi chuckled as he asked in a joking manner. "You don't think there is a portal here, do you?" Kaysi whispered.
"I laughed back at these people, maybe evil, but I don't sense anything."
We walked as a group—Waymaker and Uncle. Not all the time is evil and corruption in the hearts of demons, but they are sometimes born from the evil natures of man.
Uncle represented himself and others. Walking in his best black sweater, sporting the small stitched logo of the bakery over his heart. Ready to make a statement.
We took our seats in the back with the other members of the public, who waited patiently, listening to the plans and eagerly awaiting what might unfold for their futures.
Developers gave presentations. City officials nodded solemnly. There were charts, virtual mock-ups, and holograms of new buildings with names like "Silhouette Towers" and "Marketplace Central." All of this spoke to anyone with money, but to the people who really mattered.
It was our turn to make a quick, limited-time statement to be heard. They walked up and said it was our turn to contribute to their new ideas and systems of development, but they didn't look pleased or consider it a truth, to be honest, about any of our problems.
Kaysi asked a question about where over a hundred displaced people would go. No one replied, just a shrug of the shoulders and them looking at each other as if she was an inconvenience. Evan pushed back on the rezoning timeline, offering a solution if the needs could not be met and allowing families more time to gather themselves. Josh pointed out inconsistencies in the construction permits. We were heard—but not listened to.
That is, until Uncle stood up. He seemed to change the whole atmosphere.
He lifted his voice with authority. He walked up and spoke directly to the counselor. No podium was needed, nor was a microphone, as he delivered his speech.
"This place...this place fed my family when my heart was too broken to try. It gave me back my soul after I thought I had buried it with my daughter. Our bakery—our home—isn't just where we make and sell bread. It's where people from all over gather when they're lost. Even celebrities gather, calling this place a local treasure. I have also been called a local legend, as we give more than just food. We give a welcome."
Some of the investors shifted uncomfortably. The governor, sitting in the back with his arms crossed, gave a faint smile. It didn't reach his cold eyes.
"Our bakery brings more than profits and sales revenues. I have watched kids grow up at our tables. I've met with almost all the towns' first responders. The cops can't get enough of our donuts. I have shared moments of vulnerability as they cry over their coffee after hard nights."
"This place gives people a new start, a second chance. If you take that away, if you pave over that, it makes us who we are. You are not developing this town but taking the heart out of it—killing it."
He looked straight in the eyes of the governor, hoping to burn him with conviction of his plans.
"I invite you to walk with me. Nothing special, steps down the streets that you are envisioning your new world to be buried under."
For a long time, the room held its breath.
Then came the polite applause of the members.
The kind who say, "Thank you for your time." But now we heard you.
As we turned to leave, I caught the governor watching Uncle. Not with respect. Not with interest but with cold calculation.
Something in my chest tightened like a viper at his resolve.
This wasn't over. Not even close.
Later that night, as we closed up the bakery, the sound of a train echoed in the distance of the city.
I looked out the window toward Bellridge Hill. Lights from construction crews blinked in the distance like warning signs.
This fight wasn't policy.
It was personal.
I turned off the lights, locking the door behind me.
Tomorrow, the governor will walk our streets.
And I would be ready.