Brantley Trevelyan knew every crack in the cobblestones leading to Congress Gate. He’d walked them countless times, his worn boots echoing the rhythm of generations who came before him. He wasn't born in New Republic, but he arrived as a young boy with his family, fleeing hardship in the distant coal mines of Hammer borough. New Republic was different then. The air buzzed with the hum of industry, dreams of upward mobility mingled with the scent of coal smoke and freshly baked bread from Mrs. O’Malley's bakery on Thistle Street. He learned the value of hard work alongside his father at the textile mill, their calloused hands weaving together not just cloth but a future for their family. Over time, Brantley saw the mills slow, then fall silent. Jobs dwindled, and the vibrant tapestry of New Republic began to fray. But he never lost faith in the neighborhood's spirit. He found solace in tending his rooftop garden, coaxing life from the harsh concrete, sharing its bounty with neighbors who remembered when a full larder wasn’t a luxury. Every morning, he sat on his stoop, watching the sun rise over Congress Gate, its rusted arches casting long shadows across the street. The gate was more than just a relic; it symbolized resilience, a reminder that even amidst decay, beauty and hope could endure. He believed in simple truths: honesty, hard work, and looking after your neighbor. These were the pillars of his life, unwavering in the face of change.