Page 23 of The Wright Man

I smiled, just a little. The kind of smile that doesn't reach your eyes and doesn't stick around long.

Wild how you can know somebody down to the bone—the exact sound of their laugh, the way they move through a room, which pancake gets sacrificed to the pan every single time—and still manage to lose them completely.

The silence settled again.

I ran a hand over the spot where her blanket used to fall across the rug. Where her laughter used to curl up and sleep.

Then I turned and kept walking.

Because if I stayed too long in that memory, I'd never leave it.

I used to think home was the green house across the street from my best friend. Her laugh. The porch. My mama's arms. My brother's voice.

But this house? The memories? This silence?

This is what was left of all that.

And it was asking me what the hell I'm gonna do with it.

Chapter Four

Maleek

The warehouse still smelled like sawdust and promise. That mix of new drywall, old concrete, and lingering sweat from the bodies that had trained here back when it was a busted-ass CrossFit gym.

It was quiet now. The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.

My boots echoed as I stepped deeper inside, the rubber soles hitting the polished concrete with that satisfying weight. Morning sun sliced through the front windows in sharp angles, throwing long beams of light across the dust hanging in the air.

They'd stripped everything down last week—old banners, busted mirrors, racks of equipment that couldn't hold a toddler. Riq called it "the exorcism." Said we were banishing all the gym bro demons before we brought in anything worthy.

I paused near the center of the space and looked up. Twenty-foot ceilings. Steel support beams. Enough open floor to run drills or let a grown man lose his soul doing battle ropes.

I could already see it.

One corner for boxing—mats, heavy bags, maybe a ring if the budget stretched. Another for strength work—sleds, kettlebells, resistance rigs, all the good shit. Then a separate section for the trauma-informed side: soft lighting, quiet acoustics, soundproofing. A place where silence felt like safety instead of punishment.

It still looked empty. But in my head, it was alive.

Sweat on concrete. Gloves on bags. That quiet sound of somebody pushing through pain without saying a word.

A home for people who didn't think they belonged anywhere.

Like we'd all been, once.

I walked to the back office and flipped the light switch. It flickered once before glowing steady—warm and yellow against the cold grey walls. It still needed paint, but it would do for now. I dropped the coffee carrier on the desk: three cups, all different orders. One extra hot black for me. One caramel oat milk latte for Riq, who swore he was too hood for Starbucks but somehow always knew the exact spelling of "machiatto." And a triple-shot espresso for Sticks, who almost never smiled and moved like he was perpetually ten seconds from blackout rage.

The cups steamed in the cool air of the office.

I leaned against the desk and took a slow sip.

This was the kind of morning I used to dream about overseas. Nothing loud. Nothing urgent. Just me, some plans, and the bones of something real in front of me.

I thought about Okinawa. The recon drills. The weight of my ruck on those endless hikes. The pain that made sense—muscle, not memory.

I thought about why I started this in the first place.

Because I needed somewhere for all the ghosts to go.