A foreign boy with bright eyes walks down the Persian carpet. He doesn’t see himself as foreign, however. No one here does. The concrete ceiling arches high above him. Corinthian pillars straddle him. Chinese calligraphy and African visual arts flow down the gargantuan walls. Renaissance sculptures accessorize them. The pathway is already there, he just has to be the one to take it. Finally, he can be a part of this.

He makes his way up the steps. At the top is a throne with a granite Bald Eagle above. On the chair, his older self, holding a long, unsheathed sword. He gently holds it out with both hands and a face of Optimism.

The boy holds his hands out as the metal object is placed into his palms; he realizes the level of fortune bestowed upon him, as well as the ones before and after him. Scribed on the hilt are the letters “F-U-T-U-R-E.” An electrical impulse flows through the boy’s body: fate. An indescribable power absorbs his being, the power of contribution. He bows to the king and turns to the exit, unable to contain his excitement. 

He searches for an assortment of pebbles, stones, rocks, and boulders. He finds the best ones and carves checkmarks to be forged into history. A Promise is made.

The adult man sticks the “I Voted” sticker on his chest. The door of the Town Hall rings as he holds it open for the next young voter.