Chapter Three: Volunteer Work

The Millbrook Community Center looked different in daylight.

Ayana stood outside the brick building, watching kids stream through the doors for the after-school program. Bright murals covered the exterior walls—children's hands reaching toward painted stars, words like HOPE and FUTURE in bold letters.

She pushed through the doors into warmth and controlled chaos. The main room buzzed with activity—maybe thirty kids of various ages, half a dozen adults supervising. A bulletin board announced upcoming programs: job training, college prep, holiday food drive, winter clothing distribution.

"You must be Ayana!"

A woman in her thirties approached. Raven Cole, according to her name tag. Volunteer Coordinator.

"Guilty," Ayana said, extending her hand. "My father said you could use help with the tutoring program?"

"Absolutely. We're always short-handed." Raven's gaze traveled over Ayana's jeans and fitted sweater—appropriate but not dowdy. "Your father speaks very highly of you. Says you studied social work?"

"Education focus, but yes."

"Perfect. Nelson will want to meet with you first, get you oriented." Raven's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "He's very particular about his volunteers."

"As he should be."

"Mm." Raven gestured toward a hallway. "His office is in the back. Second door on the right. Fair warning—he's been in a mood all morning."

Because of me,Ayana thought with dark satisfaction.

She walked down the hallway, past framed photos of smiling kids, thank-you cards taped to walls, achievement certificates. Evidence of lives changed. Of Nelson's twenty-year penance bearing fruit.

His office door was ajar. She knocked softly.

"Come in."

His voice sent shivers down her spine. She pushed the door open.

Nelson sat behind a cluttered desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, files spread before him. He looked up, saw her, and went completely still.

"Hi," she said.

He removed his glasses slowly. "Your father didn't mention you were coming today."

"Didn't he?" She stepped inside, closed the door. "He said you needed volunteers. Here I am."

"Ayana—"

"Should I leave? If my presence is too... distracting."

His jaw tightened. "Sit down."

She sat in the chair across from him, crossed her legs, watched his eyes follow the movement before snapping back to her face. The office was small, sparse—desk, filing cabinets, bookshelves crammed with binders and reports. A single photo on the shelf: Nelson and a beautiful woman with dark hair, both young, both laughing.

Sarah.

"The tutoring program runs Tuesday and Thursday afternoons," Nelson said, his voice professionally neutral. "We work with kids grades three through twelve. Reading, math, homework help. You'd be assigned specific students based on their needs and your strengths."

"Sounds perfect."

"There are rules." He pulled out a folder, slid it across the desk without quite touching her. "Background check—already processed through your father. Confidentiality agreements. Professional boundaries with the children. Punctuality expectations."

"Of course."

"This isn't—" He stopped, ran a hand through his hair. "This is important work, Ayana.If you're just doing this to—"

"To what?" She leaned forward. "Spend time near you? Is that what you think?"

"I don't know what to think." His voice roughened. "You show up after four years, looking like that, saying things like you did last night—"

"Looking like what, exactly?"

"Like you know exactly what you're doing to me."

The confession hung between them, raw and dangerous. His breathing had quickened. So had hers.

"What am I doing to you, Nelson?"

"Making me forget—" He stopped himself, stood abruptly. "This is inappropriate. You're Marcus's daughter. You're here to volunteer, nothing more."

"If you say so."

"I do." But he didn't move away from the desk, didn't open the door. Just stared at her like she was a test he was failing. "The kids are out there waiting. Let me introduce you to Dr. Hayes. He oversees the tutoring program."

"Fine." She stood, moved toward the door. Had to pass close to him in the small space. Watched his whole body tense as she approached.

She paused beside him. "For what it's worth, I'm not trying to make you forget her. I'm trying to remind you that you're still alive."

She left before he could respond.

---

Dr. Benedict Hayes was everything her sister had described—sixties, silver-haired, kind eyes that missed nothing. He greeted Ayana warmly, introduced her to the other volunteers, paired her with three students who needed reading help.

The next two hours passed in focused work. Teaching a third-grader to sound out words. Helping a seventh-grader with a book report. Discussing college essays with a high school senior who reminded her of herself four years ago—smart, trapped, desperate to escape.

She was good at this. Had forgotten how much she loved it.

But she was always aware of Nelson. He moved through the center like a ghost—checking on kids, speaking quietly with volunteers, carrying supplies, fixing a broken computer. Never looking at her directly but always, always aware of where she was.

The kids adored him. She watched a shy nine-year-old light up when Nelson asked about his math test. Saw a teenage girl show Nelson her acceptance letter to a coding camp, saw his rare smile transform his face.

This was his redemption. These children, this work. Twenty years of penance poured into other people's futures.

And he was still so lonely it made her chest ache.

"He's good with them," Dr. Hayes said quietly, appearing beside her. "Natural gift. Sees potential where others see problems."

"How long have you worked with him?"

"Fifteen years. Knew him before, though. Before the accident." Dr. Hayes's expression turned sad. "Sarah was my niece."

Ayana's breath caught. "I'm sorry."

"Long time ago." He studied her face. "He's never forgiven himself. Thinks surviving was a sin that requires lifelong atonement. I've tried telling him Sarah would hate what he's done to himself, but—" He shrugged. "Grief makes people stubborn."

"And lonely."

"Very." Dr. Hayes's gaze was knowing. "He needs someone to remind him he's allowed to live. Someone brave enough to push past those walls."

The implication was clear. Ayana met his eyes. "That's a dangerous thing to suggest."

"Perhaps." His smile was gentle. "But watching him exist instead of live for twenty years has been dangerous too. Just... be careful. Both of you. This town doesn't forgive easily."

He walked away before she could respond.

---

At five o'clock, the center emptied. Kids left with parents or headed home. Volunteers packed up, said their goodbyes. Ayana took her time gathering her things, watching others leave until only a few remained.

Including Nelson, still in his office, door open, bent over paperwork.

She knocked on the doorframe. "I'm heading out."

He looked up, exhaustion written in every line of his face. "How was your first day?"

"Good. The kids are great. I'm assigned to come back Thursday."

"Good." He set down his pen. "You're... you're good with them. Natural."

"Thank you."

Silence stretched. He should say goodnight. She should leave. Neither moved.

"Nelson—"

"Don't." He stood, moved to close the door. Didn't close it all the way. "Please. Whatever you're about to say, don't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm hanging on by a thread here, and you—" He stopped, voice breaking. "You're making it impossible."

"Good." She stepped closer. "Stop hanging on. Let go."

"I can't." But his eyes said something different. Said he wanted to. Said he was tired of fighting.

"You can. You just won't."

"Ayana—"

She closed the distance, placed her palm on his chest. Felt his heart hammering. "I see you, Nelson. Not the director, not the pillar of the community, not the man doing penance. I see you. And I'm not afraid of what I see."

His hand covered hers, pressing it harder against his chest. "You should be."

"Why?"

"Because if I touch you the way I want to—" His voice dropped, rough and desperate. "I won't stop. I won't be gentle. I won't be—"

Footsteps in the hallway. They sprang apart. Raven appeared in the doorway, her eyes sharp, taking in the scene—Nelson breathing hard, Ayana flushed, the tension thick enough to cut.

"Sorry to interrupt," Raven said, not sounding sorry at all. "Nelson, the mayor's office called. They want to meet tomorrow about the grant proposal."

"Right. Thank you." His voice was controlled again, professional. The mask back in place.

Raven's gaze lingered on Ayana. "Nice work today. See you Thursday?"

"Definitely."

Raven left, but the moment was broken. Nelson stepped back, putting safe distance between them.

"You should go," he said quietly.

"This isn't over."

"It has to be."

She walked to the door, paused. "You're wrong about something, Nelson. You think wanting me means forgetting Sarah. But maybe—maybe Sarah would want you to live. Maybe honoring her means choosing life instead of this slow death you've been dying for twenty years."

She left him standing there, and this time she didn't look back.

But she felt his eyes on her all the way to her car.