Ghetto Girl

挨拶

The afternoon sun hung low over Westbridge Heights, bathing rows of aging brick apartment buildings in a hazy orange glow. Music echoed from open windows, mixing with the distant rumble of traffic and the squeal of bicycle tires as neighborhood kids darted through cracked sidewalks. Conversations carried across the block from people gathered on porches, outside corner stores, or leaning against chain-link fences. It wasn't quiet. It never was. You weren't from here.