I don't even know why I'm writing this, honestly. It’s late, like really late, and I should be sleeping because tomorrow I have to deal with Mrs. Henderson complaining about the potholes again, which honestly, I think she just likes to complain. But I can't sleep. My mind is just... buzzing. It’s about my dad, mostly. Not my actual dad, but his friend, Mr. Albright. Everyone here knows Mr. Albright. KNEW Mr. Albright, I guess I should say. He passed away last month. And yeah, it’s sad, obviously, for his family, but for me it’s just… it’s like a gut punch. Not because he was my best friend or anything, but because of what he represented. What he *was*. He was THE guy here, you know? Not just in the small sense, like everyone knew him because he owned the hardware store for fifty years and gave all the kids their first job, even me, for like two summers when I was in high school and just wanted to save up for a new video game console, which now feels so stupid. No, he was the guy who ran things. He was on the county board for like thirty years. He was the one who got the grant for the new library, the one who fought for the new park. When something needed doing, you went to Albright. And he always, always, knew what to do. He always had a plan. And I remember one time, I must have been maybe ten, and my dad was having some trouble with the town zoning — we wanted to build a little shed out back for his woodworking, but the setback lines were all messed up from some old survey, or something complicated like that — and he was just FUMING. My dad, he’s a good guy, but he gets like that, just red-faced and yelling, mostly at the air. And my mom just said, quiet-like, "Honey, just go talk to Arthur." And my dad, he grumbled, but he went. And two days later, problem solved. Just like that. Arthur Albright just… handled it. He picked up the phone, made a call, explained some arcane rule from 1972, and boom. Everything was fine. It was like magic, to a kid. I remember thinking, even then, that’s what I want to be. Not a magician, obviously, but someone who just… makes things happen. Someone who has that kind of… sway. That kind of quiet power. And I worked for it. I did. I went to college, got my degree in public administration, came back here even though everyone said I should go to the city because there’s "nothing here." But I wanted to be here. I wanted to be part of *this*. I wanted to be like Albright. And I am, sort of. I mean, I got elected to the town council last year. I’m the youngest one, by like twenty years. And I work hard. I really do. I’m the one who reads all the dense reports, who stays up late doing the research. I’m the one who actually knows the new state regulations, not just what was on the books when Mr. Henderson’s granddad was mayor. I’ve even managed to get a couple of things passed, small things, but things that actually help people, like the new senior transport program. I’m making a difference, right? I am. But it’s not the same. It’s just… not the same. When Albright walked into a room, people LISTENED. There was this weight, this unspoken authority. When I walk in, it’s like, oh, it’s the young guy. It’s like they’re humoring me. And now that he’s gone, everyone’s just… lost. They keep looking to me, which is what I wanted, but it’s not that same look. It’s like they expect me to fill his shoes, but they don't actually believe I can. Or they want me to just magically fix everything with a phone call, like he would have, but I can’t. I have to go through all the channels, all the bureaucracy, and it takes WEEKS. MONTHS. And even then, it’s not a guarantee. I was at his funeral, of course. Everyone was. And the eulogies, they just kept going on and on about his influence, about how he shaped this town, how he was a pillar. And I just sat there, listening, and all I could feel was this burning… anger. Not at him, not really. But at myself, I guess. Because I thought I was on that path. I thought I was becoming that person. But I’m not. I’m just… me. Some kid who finally got a seat at the table, but no one really cares what I have to say. And now he’s gone, and that kind of influence, it feels like it just died with him. And I’m just left here, with a quiet apartment, and a stack of pothole complaints, feeling like I’m never going to be anything more than just another cog in the machine. It’s infuriating.