Jalen stepped off the crowded subway with the same mixture of hope and fear he carried every morning. New York City was loud, fast, and unforgiving—especially for someone like him, an undocumented immigrant from St. Lucia trying to carve out a life in a place that barely noticed him.

He kept his résumé tucked neatly in a plastic folder, though he’d learned long ago that most managers never looked past his accent, his lack of papers, or the uncertainty in his eyes. Still, he walked into every shop with his back straight, repeating the same quiet promise to himself: One day, things will get better.

That morning, a cold wind whipped through Flatbush Avenue as he tried yet another small restaurant. The owner barely glanced at him before shaking her head. “No openings.” Jalen thanked her anyway, stepping out before the weight of disappointment could choke him.

But he refused to give up. At a construction site a few blocks away, he saw men gathering around a supervisor. Jalen approached carefully.

“You looking for work?” the foreman asked, squinting at him.

“Yes, sir. I can lift, dig, carry—anything you need.”

The man shrugged. “Pays cash. Long hours. Hard work.”

For Jalen, those were not warnings—they were opportunities. He nodded quickly.

By noon, his muscles burned, and dust clung to his skin. But when the foreman handed him a folded stack of bills at the end of the day, Jalen felt something shift inside him. It wasn’t just money—it was proof. Proof that he could survive here. That he belonged, even if the city didn’t know it yet.

As he walked home beneath the glowing streetlights, Jalen felt a spark of pride warming the cold evening. Tomorrow would be hard. But for the first time in months, tomorrow also felt possible.