Nia lived on a bright little street where music floated through the air like sunshine 

Jazz danced from open windows. Gospel rang from the church down the block. Hip-Hop bounced through the park like a heartbeat

But Nia had a secret. 

She didn't think she had a song of her own.

One warm afternoon, Nia sat on her grandmother's porch listening  to the neighborhood sing around her

Grandma rose Smiled gently. 

"Every song carries a story," she told Nia. 

"You just have to listen close enough to hear it. 

At the end of the block lived Mr.Elijah, the neighborhood gardener. 

His yard overflowed with sunflowers, jasmine, tomatoes and vines that curled around little fences

As he hummed softly, the flowers seemed to sway with the music.

"Child," Mr.Elijah said with a smile, "songs are like seeds. you plant them in people and they keept growing."

Nia listened carefully to his gentle advice flaoting through the garden like wind.

Farther down the street, music BOOMED from Grandpa Leon's apartment. Inside, golden jazz swirled through the room while olde records spun in circles.

Grandpa Leon dances across the floor in his shiny shoes. "Jazz ain't music for sittin' still baby!" he laughed.

Nia giggled as Grandpa twirled beside the record player. Grandpa Leon carefully places another record on the player. Soft music crackled through the room.

Nia watched the music curl into glowing notes in the air. For the first time she realized songs could hold memories.

Some folks write history in books, but we sang ours

Across the street, Aunt Dana painted a giant mural while hip-hop blasted from her speaker. Bright colors stretched across the wall like fireworks