There’s something oddly profound about a single brick in a gentrified block. On the surface it’s just a piece of clay, but it’s also a piece of history—every layer of mortar and paint tells a story of the people who built it. When you splash it with color that the city deems off‑limits, you’re not just vandalizing a wall, you’re inserting a punctuation mark into a sentence that’s been read for years. That one brick becomes a quiet protest, a reminder that the new façade is built atop old hands, and that even in a city reshaped by developers, the smallest unit still carries the weight of memory.