He set the frame carefully on the small shelf beside his bunk. The room looked different with it there. Less temporary.
He reached into the box again and pulled out a small object. He stared at it.
Then huffed a quiet laugh. A dog toy. Cheap rubber shaped like a bone. If you squeezed it, it squeaked. A small note was taped to the side in Jasmine’s handwriting. For the big scary wolf.
Melvin shook his head. She didn’t know. Not really. But sometimes it felt like she got closer than anyone had a right to. He set the toy beside the picture frame and surprised himself by smiling. Small and quick, like a release. One last item sat at the bottom of the box. A small wooden frame with worn edges.
Melvin recognized it immediately.
The handwriting inside was younger and messier, his own.
The poem he had written when he was thirteen. He hadn’t seen it in years. He read the first lines silently.
Steel sings under the city, a long tired squeal,
The train shudders forward on rails made of steel,
Faces blur past me, reflections and ceilings,
While tunnels echo back pieces of feelings.
A conductor calls stops with a voice made of steel,
And the crowd keeps its quiet, pretending not to feel,
But the rattle and rhythm slip under the ceilings,
Turning strangers’ silence into shared feelings.
The rails hum a promise, cold tempered steel,
That everyone riding has something to feel,
And the lights flicker softly like half-buried dealings,
Secrets that travel beside our feelings.
So the train keeps its course on the patience of steel,
Through stations where nobody says what they feel,
Yet somewhere between all the departures and healings,
The subway keeps time with our quietest feelings.
At the bottom, in smaller handwriting that wasn’t his, she had added a single line.
Mac,
He never shows people this part. That means he trusts you.
Jasmine.
Melvin stared at the words longer than he meant to. Trust you. Not understand you. Not fix you.
Trust.
He wondered when that line had been crossed and realized it hadn’t happened in any single moment. It had come quietly, piece by piece, until trusting Mac felt as natural as breathing. The thought of losing that trust felt like losing ground under his feet.
