Later, when everyone had gone home and Mars was locking up, Nia pressed something into his palm. A small, smooth stone painted with a single lavender stripe—the transgender pride flag.
And he understood. The transgender community wasn’t a monolith. It was messy, loud, fractured by infighting, bruised by rejection, and exhausted from a world that demanded they justify their existence. But it was also the most honest thing he’d ever seen.
Mars had arrived six months ago, carrying everything he owned in a ripped backpack. He had left behind a town where the church bells sounded like gavels and his deadname echoed off every cornfield. Here, he found Nia.