13. Ro #3
The building stood there across Mapleview Ave, near Gram’s House, a black silhouette against a sky that didn’t bother showing stars anymore.
Windows were boarded up or cracked, doors painted over too many times to hide the dents.
It looked smaller than I remembered, but I knew every squeaky stair, every warped floorboard, every corner that had soaked up fights and whispers and promises that never made it past the block.
This wasn’t just a building. This was a reminder of who I used to be.
I grabbed the Glock, slid it into the back of my waistband, and pushed the door open.
The rain hit me cold, sharp as nails, plastering my hoodie to my shoulders.
It waited for just the right time to appear again.
Streetlights flickered overhead, turning puddles into mirrors that reflected a man I barely recognized.
I scanned the street slow, making sure I wasn’t being followed.
No cars rolled by. No movement in the alley.
Just a neighborhood holding its breath, watching.
I crossed the street, boots splashing through the puddles, every step echoing in my head like I was walking back into my own mistakes.
The closer I got, the heavier the air felt.
That front door, the same one I used to walk through like I owned the place, now looked like a gate to hell.
My stomach turned, but I swallowed it down.
You can’t let a building punk you. Not when it’s got your blood in the walls.
The key was still buried deep in my pocket, rusted, edges bent from too many years of not using it. This wasn’t just a visit. This was me stepping back into a warzone I left bleeding.
The hallway swallowed me whole, the door clicking shut behind me like a cell locking.
My Glock was low, but my eyes cut every corner.
The smell hit first—mildew, old wood, stale cigarettes sunk deep into the carpet.
It smelled like nights I spent counting money with Sal, like arguments whispered too loud through thin walls, like the kind of memories that stick to you even after you leave the block.
I slid along the wall, boots soft on the creaking boards.
Every groan from the floor was a voice from the past calling my name.
The flickering lightbulb above buzzed weak, throwing shadows that moved like they were breathing.
I checked the first door on the left—empty.
Just a broken chair and a window cracked open enough to let the cold slip in.
The second door—locked. I jiggled the knob once, twice, then let it go. Not my problem. Not tonight.
My breathing was slow, steady, like I was back in ‘99 sneaking through this same hallway, but this time I wasn’t running—I was hunting ghosts.
My palm brushed the chipped paint on the walls, fingers catching on scars left by years of fights.
Bullet holes patched sloppy, dents from boots that kicked too hard.
This building had seen more blood than a hospital.
I reached the stairwell. The handrail wobbled under my grip, the smell of rust and damp wood stronger here. I tilted my head, listening. A faint drip of water. The hum of a refrigerator somewhere. No voices. No footsteps. Good. Or bad. Hard to tell in the Crest.
Each step groaned under me, slow, deliberate. My Glock followed my gaze—up, down, left, right. Second floor looked worse than the first. Hallway stretched narrow, dim lights casting long shadows. A rat darted across the hall, claws scratching wood. I didn’t flinch.
I moved down the hall, clearing each doorway.
One cracked open—empty room, mattress on the floor, a spoon and lighter on the windowsill.
Another door closed but unlocked. I pushed it open with my foot, gun ready—just peeling wallpaper and an old TV still plugged in but dead.
Every corner was quiet, but it wasn’t peace.
It was the kind of quiet that comes before something loud.
Finally, I reached my old apartment door.
The number was barely hanging on, rusted screws holding it like they were tired of the job.
My breath hitched, just once. Memories came in flashes: Nova laughing in that kitchen, Sal leaning on that counter, me pacing this hallway with blood on my hoodie and a decision I couldn’t take back.
My hand slid into my pocket, fingers curling around the key. Same one I’d used back then. Same key to a life I buried. I eased it into the lock, twisting slow. The click echoed. The click echoed like a gun cocking, and every nerve in me was on high alert.
The hallway smelled like lemon cleaner and fried chicken, same as it always had, but there were new details—fresh paint patches over old cracks, a new welcome mat under my boots, faint chalk drawings taped to the wall. A kid’s touch. Her touch. Aaliyah’s.
I pushed the door open, slow enough to make the hinges groan.
The apartment was dim, soft lamplight flickering from the corner, shadows stretching over furniture I recognized but didn’t feel welcome on anymore.
Nova’s scent hit first—coconut hair oil, vanilla lotion, and something faintly floral that didn’t belong back then.
The living room was alive in a way it never was when I was here. Toys stacked neatly in bins, a baby doll stroller parked by the window. There was a blanket folded over the couch’s armrest—hers. Always hers. And there, on the coffee table, a small open Bible with a note slipped between the pages.
“Ro.”
Her voice was quiet, steady. She was already standing in the hallway, barefoot, wearing one of those long, soft robes she always wore at night. Her hair was braided back, face bare but glowing in that soft way that only came from peace I’d never been able to give her. She wasn’t surprised.
“You knew I’d come,” I muttered, shutting the door behind me.
“I always know when you’re close,” she spoke, voice calm but cutting. “The air changes.”
I swallowed, hands sliding into my pockets, head bowed for a second too long. “You ain’t scared?”
Nova tilted her head, a small, bitter smile tugging at her lips. “You think I’m scared of you? Of this? Ro, I been living with ghosts since you left. One more at my door don’t shake me.”
I couldn’t meet her eyes yet, so I scanned the apartment instead—photos of Aaliyah taped to the fridge, her tiny backpack by the table. My throat tightened. “She asleep?”
Nova nodded once. “Like an angel. You gon’ wake her, stomping in here with that storm on you.”
“Can I see her?”
Her eyes softened, but not enough to let me off the hook. “Tomorrow. It’s her day. You get one shot, Ro. One. You gon’ ruin it if you come in with that weight on your back.”
My jaw clenched. “I ain’t here to ruin nothing. Just… needed to see y’all.”
Nova leaned on the doorway, arms crossed. She wasn’t angry—not in the way I’d braced for. Her silence was worse. “Then see me,” she whispered. “See what you left. See what you broke.”
I finally looked at her. She wasn’t yelling, wasn’t crying. She was standing there like a wall I’d built myself and now had to climb. The robe, the soft lamplight, the weight of her gaze—it all felt like judgment and grace at the same time.
“You invited me?” I asked, voice rough.
“I invited you to her birthday,” Nova replied, steady. “Not back into our lives. There’s a difference.”
I nodded slowly, my chest tight. She was right. I didn’t deserve to be standing here. Not in this home. Not in this peace she’d carved out without me.
Nova’s eyes stayed on me, steady and sharp, like she was searching for the boy I used to be and finding a stranger instead. “You think showing up here makes you a father?” Her voice was low, even. “You think bleeding on this block makes you a man again?”
Her words cut deeper than bullets. “I didn’t come here to fight,” I muttered, my throat tight.
She pushed off the doorway, arms folding across her chest, robe swaying around her legs as she stepped closer. “That’s all you know how to do, Ro. Fight. Bleed. Leave.”
I clenched my jaw, fingers flexing at my sides. “You think I wanted to leave? You think I didn’t hate myself every damn night I was gone?”
Her lips trembled, but her stare never wavered. “You left me burying our son by myself. You left me raising a little girl who looks for a father she don’t even know.”
The words hit like a bat to the ribs, knocking the air out of me. I swallowed hard, my eyes darting to the Bible on the table, open to a verse I couldn’t bring myself to read.
“I thought I was protecting you,” I whispered.
Nova scoffed, shaking her head. “That’s a lie men tell themselves to feel better about running.
” She took another step forward, close enough for me to see the faint shimmer of tears she refused to let fall.
“You didn’t protect me. You punished me.
You punished yourself. And now you stand here lookin’ like you expect me to fix you. ”
I looked away, my chest burning. “I don’t expect nothin’.”
“Good,” she snapped, voice still calm but sharp as glass. “’Cause I don’t owe you a thing, Roman Zore. Not peace. Not forgiveness. Not even a seat at her birthday tomorrow. I’m letting you come for her. Not for me. Not for you.”
Her words hung heavy, and I couldn’t even be mad. She was right. She’d earned every ounce of that strength.
“I just… I needed to see y’all,” I rasped, voice low, rough. “Needed to see if I even still existed in your world.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “You don’t.”
That one word broke me more than any bullet ever could.
I stepped back, my boots creaking against the old hardwood, the apartment feeling smaller with every breath. “I’ll be here tomorrow. For her.”
Nova gave a single nod, chin high, face unreadable. “For her.”
I turned toward the door, hand trembling as I reached for the knob.
“Ro.”
I froze, looking back.