The fire started before dawn.No one knew how.Some said it was faulty wiring; others whispered it was sabotage.But by the time Luthando arrived, the Seed House in Ward 47 was already burning.He could see the orange glow from two streets away, the smoke rising like a cruel memory.People were shouting, forming lines to throw buckets of water, but it was useless — the flames were too hungry.The mural of the phoenix cracked under the heat, the paint blistering, its wings folding into ash.“Everyone out?” he shouted.Zola coughed, her face streaked with soot. “All the kids, yes — but the kitchen’s gone. Everything’s gone.”Luthando ran forward, ignoring her hand grabbing at his sleeve. The heat clawed his skin.He stopped only when the roof began to groan — wood and metal shrieking under the weight of its own destruction.There was nothing left to save.By sunrise, the fire was out.The crowd stood in stunned silence, watching smoke curl into the grey sky.No one spoke. Even the siren

For the first time in years, the city slept without unrest.The nights were quieter, the streets calmer, and even the air felt lighter.People said the Seed House had changed everything.But inside Luthando, there was a silence that felt heavier than the noise he’d fought for so long.He’d built, lost, rebuilt, and led a movement that now had a life of its own.And yet, when the noise faded — when the meetings ended, when the speeches stopped —he found himself asking a question he hadn’t dared to ask in years:Who am I without the struggle?He spent his mornings walking alone through the city.Past the murals of the phoenix.Past children running barefoot on pavements once feared after dark.Past vendors who now greeted him with smiles and free fruit.He was proud — but also… restless.Mandisa noticed. She always did.“You’re quieter these days,” she said one afternoon, leaning against the Seed House gate.“Peace takes getting used to,” he replied.“Or maybe you just don’t trust it.”

The Seed House was quiet that evening, the courtyard empty except for the faint hum of distant traffic.Luthando sat on the steps, letting the last rays of sunlight brush his face.He could hear the laughter of children from the nearby street, but it sounded like it belonged to someone else — a life outside his own.He had grown used to the public victories, the rebuilding, the movements.But there was a whisper inside him, something softer than applause, something older.Her voice broke it.“Luthando?”He turned sharply. There she was — Amahle, standing at the gate like a memory he had tried not to remember.Years ago, she had been the one who believed in him when the world had given up.She had held his hand through nights of hunger, nights of fear, and nights when he thought he would disappear into the streets forever.And then, somehow, life had pulled them apart.Now she was here, older, stronger, but the same Amahle who had once dared to dream beside him.He rose slowly. “Amahle

The city stirred under a pale morning light.Windows reflected gold, streets stretched quietly, and somewhere in the distance, a train hummed through the city’s veins like a heartbeat.Luthando stood at the edge of the Seed House rooftop, shoulders relaxed for the first time in decades.The phoenix mural gleamed beneath him, wings wide, eyes burning — a symbol that had outgrown its creator.He thought about the years it had taken to reach this moment.The nights of hunger, the fires, the courtrooms, the rebuilding, the love he almost lost, the children he had helped feed, teach, and inspire.Everything had led here — to a quiet certainty that life, even in its hardest form, was worth fighting for.Amahle joined him, carrying two mugs of coffee.“You’re quiet today,” she said, handing him one.He smiled. “I’m thinking.”“About?”He looked out over the cityscape. “Everything. And nothing. About the people who made this city better than it was. About what comes next, not for the Seed Hou

The neighborhood Thabo led them to was unlike anything Luthando had seen before.Narrow alleys twisted between crumbling buildings.Garbage burned in metal drums at intersections.Children ran barefoot through mud and puddles, their laughter edged with caution.The team stepped cautiously, carrying supplies, notebooks, and hope.But hope in this part of the city smelled strange — like smoke, fear, and hunger all wrapped together.Thabo walked ahead, his small frame straight, chin lifted.“This is home,” he said. “And it’s going to stay that way unless someone fights for it.”Luthando nodded, feeling the weight of the unspoken danger. He’d built the Seed House from scratch once — in streets like these.But now, he wasn’t alone. And the stakes were higher.It didn’t take long for resistance to appear.A man, broad-shouldered and grim, stepped from a doorway, arms crossed.“You don’t belong here,” he said.His voice carried authority, not just anger.Luthando stepped forward calmly. “We