📖 Book 1 – The Myths of Money
Chapter 1 – Grayford’s Morning1-1 The Town Wakes
Grayford woke before the sun, as if racing it. Freight whistles rolled in from the river, shaking houses awake. The Blue Kettle Café lit up early, Mrs. Pell sliding coffee across the counter. “Early bird gets the worm,” she repeated, like a town hymn. Paymon nodded along, believing effort alone would someday make him rich.1-2 Ashwill Street
At 12 Ashwill Street, stairs creaked like old voices and lemon cleaner masked fatigue. Marla returned from St. Leda’s as Tomas left for the shipworks. Their law was simple: work hard, save everything, never borrow. Paymon swallowed those rules whole, mistaking repetition for truth. The family’s cracked brass watch became their symbol of survival.1-3 First Paycheck
The envelope trembled in Paymon’s hands. His name printed neatly, his hours tallied, and inside—$178.42. For a heartbeat, he felt rich. Shoes, a radio, maybe even saving toward a car—all possible. Then he dropped it into the landlord’s mailbox. Gone. He stared at his empty hand, realizing his dreams had been measured and cashed in.1-4 The Savings Jar
As a boy, Paymon hoarded coins in a glass jar. Each metallic clink sounded like progress. His parents praised it: “Every penny saved is a penny earned.” But the jar never stayed full. Bus fare, candy, emergencies—it drained as quickly as it filled. He called it savings, but it was really just delay.1-5 Lemon-Scented Halls
Marla scrubbed until lemon stung the walls, saying, “A clean house shows discipline.” Tomas came home smelling of steel, shoulders sagging, voice heavy: “Hard work pays off.” Paymon breathed it in like gospel. He learned early that fatigue was noble, that a weary body meant a worthy life. Comfort was postponed for pride.1-6 The First Overtime
Sixteen years old, Paymon stocked shelves from sunrise until midnight. Twelve hours bent over cardboard, knuckles raw. His chest swelled when he punched out—until he counted the extra pay. Overtime bought him a sandwich and bus fare home. He smiled anyway, convincing himself each extra hour was a brick in his ladder upward.1-7 The Watch at Seven
At night, Paymon clutched the brass watch, cracked across the seven. “Work don’t stop, time don’t stop,” his father said, as if the broken clock still ticked. Paymon pressed it into his palm until it left a mark, never questioning its silence. In Grayford, tradition mattered more than truth. Even a stopped watch could preach.Chapter 2 – Ashwill Street Life
2-1 Morning at Number 12
The house ran on shifts. Tomas left before dawn with his lunch pail, footsteps heavy on the squeaky stairs. Marla arrived moments later, exhausted, bleach still clinging to her clothes. Paymon ate toast alone in the kitchen. Routine was their language. In that silence, he learned the unspoken truth: life was work, and work was life.2-2 Marla’s Wisdom
“Don’t waste money on silly things,” Marla warned, stretching her week into extra shifts. “The bank is where money grows.” Paymon pictured vaults of coins sprouting like trees, guarded by strong walls. He never asked questions. If his mother said savings bloomed, it must be true. Grayford didn’t breed dreamers, only believers in rules.2-3 Tomas’s Rule
Tomas returned covered in steel dust, boots clanging against the floor. He collapsed into his chair, voice gruff. “Son, never borrow. Debt makes you a slave.” The words landed like stone. Paymon absorbed them without hesitation. To him, debt wasn’t a tool; it was a curse, something dangerous enough to chain a man’s life forever.2-4 The Brass Watch Again
At dinner, Tomas polished the brass watch as if it still mattered. The crack across seven glinted in the light, frozen in silence. “This watch saw work,” Tomas said. “Time don’t wait.” Paymon touched it reverently, not noticing its stillness. A broken heirloom passed down like scripture, its silence teaching louder than any ticking could.2-5 Neighbors’ Advice
Ashwill Street hummed with borrowed wisdom. Neighbors traded lines over fences: “Stick to one job.” “Don’t take risks.” “Owning a house means success.” Each phrase shaped Paymon’s foundation. He didn’t weigh them, didn’t compare them—he simply stacked them like bricks, building his life from voices that echoed each other until doubt was impossible.2-6 The Empty Jar
Paymon’s coin jar sat on his dresser, half full. He looked at it with pride. Yet by week’s end, the coins vanished—spent on candy, notebooks, bus fare. It never held weight long enough to matter. Still, he told himself: “This is how wealth begins.” He mistook motion for growth, mistook clinking coins for progress.2-7 Grayford Dreams
On evening walks, Paymon gazed at worn houses with sagging porches and chipped paint. To him, they looked like palaces. “One day,” he thought, “I’ll have one too. Hard work will get me there.” He didn’t see the weight behind those doors—mortgages, bills, repairs. He only saw symbols, and in Grayford, symbols were everything.Chapter 3 – Routine Café Morning
3-1 Blue Kettle Special
Every morning, the Blue Kettle Special arrived at his booth: two eggs, rye toast, hash browns, endless coffee. Paymon barely had to order—Mrs. Pell already knew. The plate was routine, like a badge of belonging. Eating the same breakfast each day was less about taste and more about certainty. In Grayford, routine meant survival.3-2 The Sanitation Crew
Two sanitation workers bickered at the counter about the Alder Street detour, voices loud enough to echo. Their argument was pointless, but they repeated it anyway. Paymon half-listened, realizing this was the soundtrack of his town: the same frustrations replayed daily, as if the noise itself was part of Grayford’s clockwork.3-3 Flickering Neon
Across the street, the Alder & Sons Market sign blinked: ALDER & S_NS MARKET. Missing letters made the whole block look weary. Customers passed without noticing, but Paymon stared. Even the town’s lights seemed tired, struggling to stay awake, burning themselves down one flicker at a time. He saw himself in that glow.3-4 Mr. Hargreeves
Victor Hargreeves entered the café like a shadow cutting across sunlight. Tall, pressed shirt, hair slicked, eyes sharp. He carried no noise, yet silence bent around him. Paymon straightened in his seat instinctively, like a worker caught slouching. In Grayford, managers didn’t need to demand respect—it arrived in the room with them.3-5 The Look
Hargreeves caught Paymon’s eye and gave a nod. Not a greeting, not kindness, but a reminder. A silent way of saying: Don’t forget, your hours belong to me today. Paymon lowered his gaze to his plate, the nod pressing on him heavier than any shout could.3-6 “Son”
Whenever Hargreeves spoke, he always used the word “son.” Not warm, not fatherly. It was clipped, sharp, like a chain yanking tight. “Son” didn’t mean family; it meant hierarchy. It reminded Paymon of his place, of the distance between the man who gave orders and the one who obeyed.3-7 The Drumbeat
Paymon chewed his toast slowly, gaze shifting between the steaming plate and the flickering sign outside. Same breakfast, same workers, same boss. The day ahead felt already written, each beat predictable. Grayford pulsed like a drum that never changed tempo: work, eat, sleep, repeat. Paymon lived in its rhythm, unsure if he had any choice.
TextChapter 4 – First Paycheck4-1 The EnvelopePaymon held his first paycheck like treasure, the envelope soft from his grip. His name was typed neatly, his hours calculated, his labor given a number. It felt like recognition, like proof that his time mattered. For a moment, he felt taller. His hands trembled slightly, not from the weight of the money, but from what it symbolized.4-2 Counting It TwiceHe opened the envelope carefully, sliding out the slip and bills. $178.42. He counted it once. Then again, slower. The number was exact, official, unchangeable. For Paymon, it carried the sharpness of truth. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that truth should stretch further, should feel heavier. The number filled his head, but not his stomach.4-3 The FantasyHe let his mind wander: shoes without holes, a secondhand radio, maybe saving toward a car. For once, he let himself believe money was possibility. The bills in his hand didn’t just pay; they dreamed. His lips curved into a smile, quiet and private. He had worked, and now the world felt like it might open.4-4 The RealityThen he walked down Ashwill Street and slid the envelope into the landlord’s mailbox. The metal slot swallowed his dreams whole. Just like that, the number was gone, transformed into rent. He lingered for a moment, staring at the door as though it might give something back. It didn’t. The silence was louder than any receipt.4-5 The Empty HandWalking home, his palm felt lighter, almost hollow. He rubbed his fingers together as if the money might still be there. He had worked, earned, and paid—and yet he had nothing to show. His first paycheck had passed through him like water, leaving only a trace of dampness. Pride gave way to something quieter: disappointment.4-6 The LessonAt home, Tomas clapped him on the back. “Good work, son. That’s how a man lives—he earns, he pays, he stands tall.” Marla smiled, nodding approval. Paymon forced a smile, swallowing the truth. The lesson was clear: money wasn’t for keeping. It was for surviving. He pretended the approval was enough, though the ache in his chest said otherwise.4-7 Numbers That Don’t Add UpThat night, Paymon lay awake staring at the stub: $178.42. The number glared up at him, precise and unyielding. Numbers didn’t lie, people always said. But this one felt dishonest. It told him he had earned, but it didn’t tell him he had lost. In his empty wallet, truth felt like a trick.---Chapter 5 – Shifts and Memories5-1 The ReceiptAt the Blue Kettle, Mrs. Pell slid him a receipt with looping handwriting: Good morning, Paymon. A tiny kindness, repeated daily, like a secret handshake. He pocketed it carefully, not because it had value, but because it made him feel seen. In Grayford, kindness was rare currency. Paper-thin, but worth more than bills.5-2 First Shift FlashbackHe remembered his first shift at Alder & Sons. Nervous, sleeves too long, the aisles stretching endless before him. He thought the job would sculpt him into something bigger, tougher, respected. But the shelves didn’t care about respect. The boxes didn’t honor sweat. His nerves had faded, replaced by repetition, leaving only a quiet ache.5-3 Hargreeves’s Voice“Front the cereal aisle. Quarter inch off is sloppy.” Hargreeves’s bark rang sharp, cutting through Paymon’s first day. He bent, straightened, adjusted, again and again, until the ache burned hotter than the pride. Perfection wasn’t rewarded; it was demanded. Every inch he straightened taught him that his worth wasn’t in him, but in the cardboard.5-4 The Cereal LineRows of Cap’n Crunch stared back at him, each cartoon sailor frozen in identical smiles. Paymon lined them like soldiers, each box indistinguishable. Hours of work, and nothing new created, nothing gained. The cereal didn’t change. Only his spine bent. Grayford taught him early: precision mattered more than progress, appearance mattered more than meaning.5-5 The Clock on the WallAbove him, the clock ticked, steady and merciless. Hours slid past unnoticed. Paymon thought about the brass watch at home, frozen at seven. The store clock moved, yet it felt just as empty. He wondered if time mattered when nothing changed, when each hour vanished without leaving a trace. Both clocks told the same truth: stillness.5-6 The Weight of RoutineShift after shift blurred into one another. Stock, straighten, repeat. His hands moved automatically, his back bowed under invisible weight. The routine became muscle memory, more reflex than thought. The repetition dulled him, polishing him down to something smooth and faceless. The more he worked, the less he felt like himself.5-7 Mrs. Pell AgainBack at the café, Mrs. Pell smiled as she handed him another receipt: Good morning, Paymon. The same words, every time. He smiled faintly back, anchoring himself to the routine. In Grayford, repetition was both cage and comfort. Some days, it was impossible to tell the difference.---Chapter 6 – Another Day at Alder & Sons6-1 The CartsThe carts squealed in protest as Paymon lined them up along Alder Street. Each one wobbled differently, clattering against the others. The rhythm was always the same: push, stack, straighten. Stray wheels pulled against him, resisting order, but he forced them back into line. The work was simple, but it felt endless, like a chore assigned for life.6-2 Fluorescent BuzzInside, fluorescent bulbs hummed with mechanical constancy. The sound filled every aisle, drilling into his head until it felt stitched into his skin. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and cardboard, a sterile mixture that reminded him of permanence. Under those lights, nothing changed, nothing grew. It was brightness without warmth, noise without meaning.6-3 Hargreeves’s WalkHargreeves patrolled the aisles like a conductor. His polished shoes clicked against the tile: tap, tap, tap. Each step was precise, announcing authority before he spoke. Paymon never needed to see him to feel his presence. The rhythm of those footsteps told him when to straighten faster, when to hide his fatigue, when to disappear into obedience.6-4 The Commands“Fronting.” Tap. “Edges.” Tap. One word at a time, delivered like commands from a machine. Paymon repeated them silently, moving as though wound by a key. The tasks themselves were nothing, but the repetition became ritual. His body obeyed automatically, his mind slipping into numbness. This wasn’t just labor. It was conditioning.6-5 Finding RhythmStock, face, smile. Stock, face, smile. The rhythm carved itself into Paymon’s muscles. He found a strange comfort in it, as though surrendering to the beat spared him from choice. Yet beneath the numbness was something restless, scratching faintly at him like an itch he couldn’t reach. Rhythm wasn’t peace—it was resignation.6-6 The Small RebellionSometimes, just to test the world, he tilted a can slightly off. His heart raced, waiting to see if it would pass. It never did. Hargreeves spotted it instantly, muttering, “Fix it, son,” without breaking stride. Even crooked cans had no place in Grayford. The town had no tolerance for imperfection—not even in the smallest of details.6-7 The Clock OutWhen the day finally ended, Paymon slid his card and stepped outside. The night air struck him like freedom, but it was fleeting. His body ached, his clothes carried the smell of dust and plastic. The day had passed through him without leaving a mark. Nothing changed—except his exhaustion.---Chapter 7 – The Flyer7-1 Break OutsideOn his break, Paymon leaned against the cold brick wall, the brass watch pressed into his palm. The air smelled of exhaust and fryer grease, alive with traffic. He closed his eyes, breathing it in, feeling the imprint of the crack against his skin. Outside the aisles, life felt different—messier, louder, but more alive.7-2 The PoleAcross the street, a flyer fluttered on a telephone pole, its corners curling in the wind. Most notices announced church events or yard sales, but this one caught his eye. The bold letters, though simple, seemed to demand attention. It looked out of place, like something not entirely belonging to Grayford.7-3 The WordsHe crossed over, squinting at the words: “OPEN MIC — Blue Kettle Café, Thursday 8 PM. Tell Your Story.” He read it once, twice, three times. “Tell your story.” The phrase rattled around inside him, foreign and unsteady. What story did he have? Shifts and jars didn’t feel like stories. They felt like silence.7-4 The Voice“Break’s over,” barked Hargreeves from the doorway. The words sliced the moment clean in half. Paymon turned back, heartbeat quickening, as if he’d been caught. The flyer still hung there, bold against the wind, but he couldn’t reach for it. The manager’s shadow pulled him back into rhythm. The doorframe looked like a cage.7-5 The PocketPaymon slid the brass watch into his pocket, gripping it like a talisman. He wanted to tear the flyer down, fold it into his wallet, keep it safe. But he didn’t. He walked back, leaving the flyer where it was, fluttering in defiance. It felt like a choice he had failed to make.7-6 The DoorThe store door shut behind him with a hollow click, swallowing him again in humming lights. The contrast felt jarring—outside was movement, inside was static. He stocked shelves mechanically, but his mind lingered on the flyer. It was the first thing in a long time that hadn’t fit neatly into Grayford’s order.7-7 The Thought“Tell your story.” The words repeated in his head as his hands worked without thought. They planted themselves like seeds, even though he tried to brush them away. Paymon wondered—did he even have a story? Or was he just another line in Grayford’s endless repetition? For the first time, doubt had a voice.
Chapter 8 – Grayford’s Clockwork8-1 Morning BellsGrayford always woke the same way. The river whistles, trucks rumbling, alarms echoing from houses in unison. The town stirred like machinery, every resident a gear moving in time. Paymon felt the rhythm in his chest, automatic, inescapable. No one escaped the tick of Grayford’s clockwork. You didn’t set your own pace here. It set you.8-2 Café RitualMrs. Pell poured his coffee before he sat down. “Steady as sunrise,” she said, apron dusted with flour. Paymon smiled weakly, comforted and caged at once. Routine meant people noticed you, but also meant they expected you never to change. The booth, the breakfast, the receipt—it was all proof he belonged. But belonging carried a cost.8-3 Market LightsThe fluorescent hum of Alder & Sons was louder than thought. Shelves gleamed, boxes straightened into perfection. Paymon stocked until the aisles blurred, until motion became mindless. Every can, every cereal box felt like a link in a chain. He didn’t question why. He only obeyed, letting repetition sand down the edges of his day.8-4 The Manager’s StepHargreeves’s shoes struck the tile: tap, tap, tap. Authority announced itself before his voice did. Paymon straightened automatically, a reflex trained by repetition. The manager rarely shouted. He didn’t need to. His presence commanded silence, and silence was enough. Even when Hargreeves wasn’t in sight, Paymon still heard the steps echoing in his head.8-5 Lunch HourThe breakroom buzzed with weary talk of overdue bills, car repairs, late fees. Laughter was brittle, quickly swallowed by silence. Paymon chewed quietly, pretending to listen. But under the droning chatter, he thought of the flyer. “Tell your story.” The phrase pulsed faintly, almost daring him to believe there was something more beyond bills and repairs.8-6 The Watch’s CrackAt night, Paymon turned the brass watch in his hand. The crack across seven split his reflection into two tired faces. He pressed it against his palm, imagining the tick it should carry. But silence greeted him. A stopped clock that still ruled him—like a lie passed from father to son. A broken truth still worshiped.8-7 Evening StreetlightsWalking home, streetlights hummed overhead. Houses sagged on their porches, neighbors slouched in doorways. Every block whispered permanence, as though no one had ever left. Paymon stuffed his hands in his pockets. He felt like he was walking through the inside of a machine—his own steps part of the gears, turning endlessly. Grayford spun, and he spun with it.---Chapter 9 – The Jar Empties9-1 Counting CoinsPaymon tipped the jar, letting coins tumble against glass. The clinking sound felt heavier than paper, more satisfying. He scooped a handful, let them spill back inside, pretending it was growth. For a moment, he felt control. He could see it, hold it. In a town built on illusions of progress, the jar was his small proof.9-2 The DipBut coins vanished quickly. A bus ride here, a sandwich there, a school supply for his sister. By week’s end, the jar’s bottom showed clear again. Each clink taken out echoed louder than the ones going in. The savings slipped away like water through his hands, leaving only the disappointment of glass half-empty.9-3 Marla’s SmileStill, when Marla noticed the jar, her eyes warmed. “That’s discipline,” she said, ruffling his hair. Exhausted, but proud. Paymon beamed under her approval. He believed the jar meant something—that his small pile of coins was proof he could grow beyond Grayford. If she believed in it, then it had to matter.9-4 Tomas’s NodTomas gave a grunt of approval when he saw it. “A man with savings is a man with respect.” Paymon tucked the words away, heavier than any coin. His father’s approval felt like currency—rare and valuable. If respect came from savings, then Paymon would guard his jar like treasure, convinced discipline could buy pride.9-5 Empty GlassOne evening, Paymon shook the jar. No clink, no weight. Just the hollow scrape of glass. The silence was worse than emptiness. It felt like a promise broken, like failure staring him down. He clenched his fists, ashamed. To lose coins was to lose more than money. It was to lose face, to lose worth.9-6 The Lesson MislearnedInstead of questioning, he blamed himself. Maybe he hadn’t saved hard enough. Maybe he wasn’t disciplined like Marla or Tomas. The thought made him vow to hold tighter next time, to work longer, to resist temptation. He didn’t see the trap—that the system drained him faster than he could fill it. He only saw his own failure.9-7 Ashwill SilenceThe duplex creaked in the night, neighbors arguing upstairs about rent. Paymon sat staring at the empty jar. The glass caught the dim light, mocking him with its transparency. Outside, Grayford ticked on, repeating itself. Inside, Paymon whispered a promise to himself: next time would be different. He clung to it like it was truth.---Chapter 10 – Rent First10-1 Landlord’s KnockThe landlord’s knock came heavy, always the same rhythm: two short, one long. Paymon’s stomach tightened each time. Rent came first, no matter what. The rule pressed on every household in Grayford. A paycheck was barely touched before it was already claimed, swallowed by the landlord’s outstretched hand. The house sighed with relief, but Paymon felt robbed.10-2 Tomas’s ViewTomas never complained. “Rent makes you respectable,” he said, lighting a cigarette after handing over the envelope. “A man who pays on time is a man who can be trusted.” The words stuck. To Paymon, the transaction was less about shelter than about image. Even when it drained him, it was framed as virtue.10-3 The Routine PaymentPaymon followed suit when he earned. The envelope went straight from his hand into the landlord’s mailbox. No hesitation, no choice. He told himself it was pride. But as he walked away, he rubbed the spot where the money had been, feeling lighter in all the wrong ways. Pride didn’t fill pockets.10-4 Marla’s ReliefMarla always exhaled after rent was paid, as though the whole house unclenched. “At least the roof stays over us,” she said. That reassurance carried weight. Paymon clung to it too, even while resentment stirred. Safety had been bought, but the cost was progress postponed, again and again. Security tasted like sacrifice.10-5 Empty WalletAfter rent, Paymon opened his wallet and stared at the thin remains. Crumpled bills, coins, scraps. The math never added up. He told himself everyone lived this way. Yet deep down, he wondered—how did others climb? He saw men with cars, women with fine dresses. How? His wallet had no answers.10-6 Respect in GrayfordNeighbors praised timely rent like it was heroism. “Reliable family,” they’d whisper. Reputation mattered here, built not on abundance but on obedience. Paymon realized people feared shame more than hunger. To default was worse than to starve. In Grayford, respect came not from what you had, but how well you handed it away.10-7 A Growing QuestionOne evening, walking home, Paymon asked himself quietly: If rent always comes first, what comes second? He couldn’t find an answer. His parents had never taught him one. Grayford had never needed one. In the silence, the question grew heavier than the jar, heavier than the paycheck. It stayed with him.---Chapter 11 – The Long Shift11-1 Dawn ArrivalThe market’s doors groaned open at dawn. Paymon stepped inside, greeted by stale air and humming lights. His shift stretched long before him, twelve hours mapped out like a prison sentence. He tightened his apron strings, convincing himself fatigue was dignity. Grayford loved tired workers. They wore exhaustion like a badge.11-2 The AislesRows of canned beans and boxed pasta lined the shelves like soldiers waiting for review. Paymon straightened them endlessly, back aching, hands blistered. The more he worked, the less visible it became. Customers saw neat aisles, never the hours behind them. Perfection erased the evidence of labor, leaving only silence in its place.11-3 The Manager’s GlanceHargreeves’s eyes scanned aisles like spotlights. One look carried more weight than words. Paymon quickened his pace under the pressure, even when Hargreeves said nothing. Respect here wasn’t earned; it was demanded. Workers didn’t hope for praise. They hoped only to avoid correction. Silence became its own form of approval.11-4 Breakroom FatigueAt lunch, coworkers slumped over tables, half-asleep, sandwiches untouched. Conversation dripped with exhaustion: bills, overtime, bosses. Paymon chewed in silence, the flyer’s words nudging his thoughts. “Tell your story.” He looked around. Each face carried a story, but none dared tell it. Stories weren’t for workers. Stories were luxuries Grayford couldn’t afford.11-5 Endless HoursThe hours blurred. Stock, straighten, smile. His body obeyed even as his mind drifted elsewhere. He thought about the clock, the jar, the paycheck. Each cycle felt like repetition without reward, a treadmill that never ended. By the time the shift closed, he wasn’t sure if he had moved forward at all.11-6 Dusk ExitWhen the doors locked, Paymon stepped into dusk. The sky was pink and bruised, the streets buzzing with tired workers heading home. His shoulders slumped under the sameness of it. A whole day spent, traded for a few bills already spoken for. Work felt less like building and more like burning fuel.11-7 The Lesson of HoursThat night, lying in bed, he tried to recall something meaningful from the shift. Nothing came. Just aisles and boxes. Hours had passed, but they left no mark. He realized the hardest truth yet—that not all work builds. Some work only drains. And Grayford was built on draining.---Chapter 12 – Payday Illusion12-1 The Line at the BankPayday drew a line outside the bank, workers clutching envelopes. Faces weary, postures slouched, yet each held a flicker of anticipation. Paymon stood among them, paycheck in hand, pulse quickening. For a brief moment, everyone felt rich. The illusion was powerful, like sunlight breaking through clouds. But he knew it wouldn’t last.12-2 Counting BillsInside, he counted his bills carefully. Each number exact, each corner crisp. He felt the rush of ownership, as though the money carried promise. Shoes, food, maybe even a little saved. The math worked in theory. But he already knew where most of it was going. The list of needs always outran the bills.12-3 Rent First AgainThe landlord’s envelope claimed its share before anything else. Paymon slid it in, the weight in his hand vanishing instantly. Relief came, but hollow. The cycle never changed. Earn, hand over, repeat. Pride was offered in return, but it felt like scraps. The number on the stub no longer felt like his at all.12-4 Empty Hand SyndromeAfter payday, his wallet felt heavy only for a moment. By week’s end, it was nearly flat again. He wondered if money was designed to escape him, always moving, never settling. Holding it was temporary, like cupping water. It slipped away no matter how tightly he gripped.12-5 Café ObservationsAt the Blue Kettle, he noticed others doing the same—workers celebrating briefly with an extra plate, then returning to smaller meals days later. Payday looked like abundance but collapsed into scarcity. He realized wealth wasn’t measured at the bank. It was measured in how quickly the money disappeared afterward.12-6 Tomas’s Reminder“Pay your dues, son,” Tomas said when Paymon sighed over his stub. “The man who pays is the man who stands.” Paymon nodded, pretending the words still comforted him. But deep down, he felt something crack. Respect didn’t fill stomachs. Pride didn’t grow accounts. He started to wonder what, exactly, all the paying was for.12-7 The Illusion FadesLying in bed, Paymon thought about payday. The thrill lasted hours. The emptiness lasted weeks. He realized it wasn’t a celebration—it was a trick. A brief high, followed by the same grind. The cycle kept people chasing the feeling, even as it drained them. He fell asleep thinking: Maybe payday isn’t the prize. Maybe it’s the bait.---Chapter 13 – Lessons from Tomas13-1 Evening ChairTomas sat in his chair, cigarette smoke curling around him, the brass watch on the table. His voice carried like scripture: “Work hard, save, never borrow.” Paymon listened dutifully, nodding along. These were the commandments of Ashwill Street, passed from tired fathers to obedient sons.13-2 The Watch AgainTomas picked up the cracked watch, running his thumb across the glass. “This kept your grandfather in line. Time is discipline.” Paymon accepted the lesson, ignoring that the watch no longer ticked. Its silence went unnoticed, because belief was louder than truth. A broken watch still taught, if you wanted it to.13-3 The Debt Warning“Debt makes slaves,” Tomas repeated often, his tone fierce. “A man in debt is a man who belongs to someone else.” Paymon swallowed the warning whole. To him, credit wasn’t a tool but a curse. Better to live small and tired than risk chains. Tomas spoke with conviction, and conviction needed no proof.13-4 Stories of the YardTomas told stories from the shipworks—men losing jobs, others crippled by accidents. “But they paid their dues,” he said. “They stood tall.” Paymon heard pride in tragedy, honor in exhaustion. He didn’t yet see the trick: how Grayford glorified suffering as success. The worse the struggle, the stronger the respect.13-5 Marla’s InterjectionMarla sometimes cut in, soft but firm: “Don’t forget kindness, Tomas. Hard work without kindness is cruelty.” Her words often drifted past both men, drowned by fatigue. Paymon heard them though, storing them quietly. Kindness seemed rare in Grayford, but when it appeared, it felt more valuable than paychecks.13-6 Paymon’s ReflectionAfter Tomas’s lectures, Paymon sat with the words swirling inside him. He wanted to believe them, needed to. But cracks had begun to form. He had seen empty jars, empty wallets, endless hours. If the lessons were true, why did they always lead back to emptiness? The doubt was faint, but growing.13-7 The Weight of LegacyBefore bed, Paymon held the brass watch himself. He imagined carrying it into his own future, the same words etched into him as into Tomas. Work. Save. Never borrow. The weight of legacy pressed heavier than the watch itself. For now, he still believed—but belief was no longer as solid as it once was.