Harper, a dignified black woman in her early forties, sits hunched on a faded couch clutching a pillow. Her hands tremble as she presses play, the static giving way to grainy footage. The shimmer of tears in her eyes reflects the blue glow of the screen. "I don’t know if I’m ready for this,"

Harper watches, frozen, each shot echoing through her chest. Her son Hunter, a young black man with Tupac’s same determined gaze, appears briefly in a home video clip at the edge of the screen, laughing with her. The juxtaposition is almost unbearable. "He was just like you, Hunter. Brave. Always too brave,"

Harper buries her face in her hands, overcome by memories of laughter, arguments, and late-night talks. The grief is palpable, a physical ache that shakes her shoulders. She whispers into the silence. "Why did it have to be you? Why do our sons always end up in the crossfire?"

Harper traces the outline of Hunter’s face in the photo, her fingers lingering on his smile. The pain remains, but so does the love—the fierce, unbreakable bond of a mother to her son. She speaks to the night, her voice steady but fragile. "I will remember you. I will fight so others don’t have to feel this pain,"

Harper wipes her tears and sits at her desk, pulling out a notebook. She writes Hunter’s name in bold letters, a promise to honor his memory. Hope stirs in her chest, fragile but real, as she dreams of change. "For Hunter. For Tupac. For every son,"

Harper stands by the window, clutching Hunter’s photo to her heart. Her silhouette, framed by morning light, is a testament to resilience. She whispers a final vow, quiet but unwavering. "Your story will not be forgotten,"