Chapter 3: A Brick Wall with a Smile

The district was quiet when they arrived — just after noon, when the city’s noise hadn’t quite bled into the edges of its forgotten places.

Elira stepped onto the cracked pavement, her boots crunching loose gravel. The air here still smelled like rust and memory — old iron gates, sun-warmed stone, and the last of last night’s rain.

She could already see the bones of what it could be.

Reyden, on the other hand, looked at the buildings like a chessboard.

“This one,” he said, gesturing to a three-story brick structure with faded blue shutters, “goes first. Foundation’s useless.”

Elira stopped walking. “That’s the old printing press.”

“It’s also caving in.”

“It has structural integrity and handmade window frames from the 1920s.”

He shrugged. “It has mold and rats.”

She turned to face him, hands on her hips. “You see rot. I see potential.”

He met her gaze without blinking. “That’s the difference between an idealist and a realist.”

“And you’re the realist, I assume?”

“Painfully.”

She looked away, scanning the buildings, then back to him. “This space was once a heartbeat. It could be again.”

Reyden walked ahead, hands in his pockets. “Or it could be a parking garage that pays for three art programs across the city.”

She stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious,” he replied over his shoulder, not even glancing back.

Elira followed him reluctantly, her eyes flicking over the details of the district — rusted signs in Hindi and English, graffiti that told more truth than any marketing pitch, a row of tile work so intricate it looked like it had been carved from a dream.

He was already climbing the steps of the old library when she caught up.

“Let me guess,” she said, slightly breathless, “this one becomes a wellness center with corporate yoga on the roof?”

He smirked. “Not bad. I was thinking boutique bookstore with rentable workspaces.”

Elira gave him a flat look. “That building has a memorial in it. Third floor. The founder’s wife died during construction. He etched her favorite poem into the stone archway.”

Reyden blinked. For once, no immediate comeback.

She watched his jaw tense. “Don’t tear down ghosts, Vale,” she said quietly. “Some of them are still holding things together.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

And for a moment, Elira wasn’t entirely sure if she’d won — or just unlocked something she wasn’t ready for.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.

She arched a brow. “To demolition permits?”

“To people who think they know what the city needs,” he said, turning back toward the steps. “And maybe to me.”

Her pulse jumped.

She covered it with sarcasm. “Don’t get sentimental. I’m still charging you for this site visit.”

He laughed — rich and unexpected.

It annoyed her how much she liked the sound.

They hadn’t intended to go inside.

The door to the central building — a crumbling, sun-bleached hall that once served as a social center — had been sealed for years. But Reyden found the latch hidden beneath the warped handle. When it creaked open, he shot her a look that was half challenge, half curiosity.

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