He clocks in at six each morning. The store smells of soap and cardboard. He stacks shelves, scans items, and smiles at customers who never guess his plans. His name is Kabelo. He is nineteen. Every shift has one purpose. To pay for his music.

After work he walks home with tired legs and a full head of lyrics. His room is small. A cheap laptop sits on a cracked desk. He records at night when the street grows quiet. He saves every note on a worn flash drive. Studio time costs more than he earns in a day. He takes extra shifts. He skips parties. He buys strings instead of sneakers.

Some days are hard. A manager shouts. A customer insults him. His hands ache from counting change. He thinks of quitting. Then he plays back a rough track and hears his own voice cut through the noise. The doubt fades.

On payday he deposits most of his money into a separate account labeled music. Bit by bit the balance grows. One month he finally books his first real session. When he steps into the booth he feels fear and pride at once. The boy from retail records future.