Chapter 2: The Delivery Boy and the Wall
589 Words
The morning after a rooftop confession always felt like waking from a dream Sol wasn’t supposed to have.
The sun filtered through his cracked window, slipping past old movie posters and sketch-pinned walls. The light touched the edges of a life barely held together—piles of courier uniforms, a battered duffel bag, and cans of spray paint hidden behind a loose panel under the floorboards. A single alarm clock buzzed with the urgency of a city that never slowed down.
6:00 a.m.
Sol dragged himself out of bed, rubbing the stiffness from his shoulder. Last night’s painting hadn’t come without risk. He’d left a piece of himself on that wall—and a sketch on a stranger’s balcony. He hadn’t planned that part. Something about that girl… the way she looked at him. Like she wasn’t afraid to see.
He pulled on his courier jacket, the back patch half-torn, then stuffed his sketchpad into his side pouch and slung his duffel over one shoulder. The apartment was quiet—too quiet.
“Cami?” he called out, heading into the kitchen.
His twelve-year-old sister sat at the small table, spooning instant oats into a chipped bowl. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy braid, her uniform slightly wrinkled.
“Hey,” she said without looking up. “Your boss called. Again.”
Sol grimaced. “How mad?”
“He didn’t yell. Yet.”
That was a blessing. Mr. Torrin at the delivery hub wasn’t known for patience. He was known for docking pay over two-minute delays and cursing in three languages.
Sol grabbed a half-burnt piece of toast from the counter and ruffled Cami’s hair. “You going to school okay?”
She shrugged. “I guess. Some rich kid in class told me our building smells like rust.”
Sol froze mid-bite. “What did you say?”
“I told him rust is real. Unlike his hairline.”
Sol laughed. “You’re dangerous.”
She gave him a tired smile. “You coming to the Parent Night next week?”
He hesitated.
“I’ll try.”
“You always say that.”
Before guilt could settle, his watch buzzed. His first delivery was already queued in the system: 18th and Monroe, Sector 4. Twenty minutes from here—on foot.
Sol kissed her forehead and ran for the door.
---
The city changed block by block.
From broken pavement and exposed wire in Sector 9, to polished glass and manicured walls in Sector 4. The difference in wealth screamed without sound. Sol zipped through alleyways, his courier badge clipped loosely to his chest, avoiding security bots and drone patrols.
His hoverboard was broken—again. So he ran.
At Monroe Street, he slowed, scanning the ID plate on the drop box. The package was a small box labeled “Fragile.” Probably something useless. But he scanned it, snapped a delivery photo, and uploaded the receipt.
He turned to leave—then froze.
Across the street was a wall he hadn’t noticed before. Grey. Plain. Forgotten.
It called to him.
His fingers twitched. He reached into his jacket and touched the edge of a paint can, still cold from last night. No cameras. No guards. Just one blank canvas begging for color.
But he didn’t have time.
He took a breath, committed the wall to memory, and kept walking. Still, the silence of it haunted him. So many places in the city had been claimed, painted, or erased—but this wall was waiting.
- Writer
