December 2024.
I had been back in Norfolk for a year, but it still felt like I was visiting my own life.
“Glad to see you back, Ced,” my boy said from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other hand doing that Norfolk thing where you talk with your whole arm. “What you wanna do today?”
We rolled down Military Highway like the road still remembered our names. The lights from the old businesses hit the windshield in flickers—beauty supply signs, tire shops, corner stores with neon that never sleeps. It all felt familiar and strange at the same time… like seeing a cousin you love but don’t really know anymore.
We passed Military Circle Mall.
“Let’s go to the mall,” I said. “I need a taste of VA flavor.”
My other friend in the back seat laughed like I’d told a joke that used to be true.
“Oh, you haven’t heard?” he said.
I didn’t like that sentence. It never brings good news.
“They closed the mall last year.”
The words hit my chest with a quiet thud. I tried to play it cool, but my mind instantly ran laps through the old place: the food court smell, the echo of shoes on tile, the way the air felt cooler near certain entrances, like the building had moods.
“I used to work there,” I said. “Security. I was posted up walking them halls like I owned stock in the place.”
“And you did,” my friend said. “You owned a piece of everybody’s drama.”
We laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that hides something.
Because I used to go there as a teenager too. So many times. Not even to buy anything. Just to be around life. To feel like the world was bigger than my block. I wanted a piece of home—some nostalgia I could hold in my hand like a warm cup.
And the last eight years?
They’d been rough.
Grand Rapids was good to me in some ways. Raleigh taught me things. But the road also took pieces of me. I came back carrying that invisible luggage people don’t see until you finally sit down and the weight makes your shoulders drop.
Later that day, we pulled into Rally’s. It was one of those Norfolk nights where the cold is polite but persistent—like it’s tapping you on the back saying, You sure you dressed for this?
We hit the drive-thru.
And that’s when she showed up.
Now listen—when I say I’m a talent scout, I don’t mean I’m walking around with a clipboard, handing out contracts like Santa. I mean I notice things. I see presentation. I see effort. I see the spark.
And through that little drive-thru window, I saw glamour.
She took my order like she wasn’t just working—she was performing. Not in a fake way. In a “this is who I am” way. Her hair was done so tight, so clean, so uniquely styled I almost forgot what combo I wanted.
I leaned forward like the window was a stage curtain and I was trying to see the lead actress better.
“What is she doing working here,” I whispered to my friends, “with her hair looking soooo good?”
She smiled—warm, natural, like she had sunlight in her cheeks.
I had lived in Grand Rapids four years and Raleigh four years and I’m telling you: I had not seen a hairdo like that. Not like that. It was art with edges. It was “I’m not waiting for an occasion” energy.
So I asked her.
“Who did your hair?”
She tilted her head a little. “My cousin. In South Carolina.”
I nodded like that made perfect sense. “I knew it. You will not find anyone else to do your hair like that until you go back.”
She paused. Not a long pause—just long enough for the night to get quiet around her.
Then she said something I will never forget.
“You find the greatest things in the unlikeliest places.”
It landed in me like a bell note.
And I don’t know why, but right then—right there—I felt that sentence connect to Military Circle Mall like a wire touching a battery.
We drove off with food and laughter, but my mind stayed parked at that line.
Because what was Military Circle to me if not a place full of unlikely greatness?
Kids becoming adults in the arcade.
First dates at the food court.
Job applications that turned into careers.
Old ladies walking laps like the mall was their church.
Teenagers trying on confidence in store mirrors.
And me?
Me trying to become somebody.
That night, after I dropped my friends off, I found myself driving back down Military Highway alone.
I told myself I was just “riding.” That’s what we call it when we don’t want to admit we’re chasing a feeling.
The mall sat there like a giant memory with its lights off. The parking lot looked too big without cars. Too quiet without people. Even the street seemed to lower its voice out of respect.
I pulled over.
I didn’t get out at first. I just stared.
Then—like somebody turned the world’s volume knob—snow started falling.
Norfolk don’t do snow like that often, so it felt like the city was trying to tell me, Pay attention. This part is special.
And then I heard it.
Soft at first.
Christmas music.
Not loud like a speaker. More like… the air itself was humming a carol. Somewhere in the distance I heard bells—real bells, not ringtone bells. The kind that make you think of old churches and December miracles.
I blinked hard and looked around.
That’s when I saw her.
Standing near the edge of the lot like she had been waiting for me specifically.
The Rally’s girl.
Same hair. Same glow. But now she wasn’t in a uniform. She had on a coat that looked too elegant for a parking lot—cream-colored, belted at the waist, like something out of a winter magazine shoot. Her makeup was subtle, but her presence was loud.
She raised her hand like, Come on.
Now I know what you’re thinking: Ced, that food had you hallucinating.
Maybe.
But my feet were already moving.
I stepped out into the cold and the snow caught in my eyelashes. The air smelled clean, like the city had washed its face. I walked toward her, half nervous, half curious, like I was approaching a door I didn’t know I deserved to open.
“You said something earlier,” I called out, stopping a few feet away. “About finding the greatest things in unlikely places.”
She smiled like she knew I would come.
“You heard me,” she said.
“I did.”
She turned her head toward the mall. “You came looking for a taste of home.”
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
“And you thought it was gone.”
“I mean…” I gestured at the dark building. “It’s literally… closed.”
She stepped closer, and her eyes were kind—kind like somebody who already knows your story but won’t embarrass you by telling it.
“Some places don’t close,” she said. “They just move.”
She walked toward a side entrance I hadn’t noticed before, tucked near an old loading area. I followed, snow crunching under my shoes, my heart thumping like I was fifteen again.
She stopped at a plain metal door.
No sign. No lights.
Just a door.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a key.
And I know how that sounds. But she did it like it was normal.
Like women in Norfolk just carry keys to your childhood.
She looked at me over her shoulder.
“You coming?” she asked.
I laughed under my breath. “I’m already here, ain’t I?”
She unlocked the door and pushed it open.
Warmth spilled out.
Not just heat—warmth. The kind that feels like safety. Like somebody’s grandma’s house. Like the inside of a memory.
I stepped through.
And I froze.
Because the building wasn’t a storage room.
It wasn’t a hallway.
It was Military Circle Mall.
A replica—but not a cheap one. A perfect one.
The same wide concourse. The same tile. The same skylights overhead, glowing like daylight even though it was night outside. Garland hung from railings. Christmas lights twinkled. A giant tree stood in the middle like it had been waiting years just to shine one more time.
And the smell—
Soft pretzels.
Cinnamon.
Popcorn.
Perfume drifting past like somebody just walked by in a good mood.
I turned slowly, trying to breathe.
“You… you did this?” I whispered.
She shrugged. “I didn’t do it alone.”
I looked down the corridor and saw movement.
People.
Not crowds, but enough.
And then I recognized faces.
Old friends.
Not just my friends from earlier—friends from then. High school people I hadn’t seen in years. Old coworkers from security. A woman who used to work a kiosk and always called me “baby” like it was my real name. A dude I used to dap up near the arcade. Even a teacher I swear hadn’t aged a day.
They were laughing. Talking. Walking like this was any regular Saturday in 2004.
One of my old coworkers spotted me and threw his arms open.
“CED!” he shouted. “Man, where you been?”
I walked toward him like my legs belonged to someone else.
He hugged me tight, the way men hug when they don’t want to admit they missed you.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, but my throat was tight.
“I’m trying,” I said.
“That’s enough,” he said. “Come on. We walking.”
And just like that, we were moving through the mall.
Storefronts lit up as we passed them, like the place recognized us. Like the building was happy to be remembered.
I heard laughter from the food court. I heard a kid beg for a toy. I heard the squeak of a stroller wheel and the shuffle of mall-walker shoes. I even heard someone say, “Meet me by the fountain,” and my chest squeezed because I had forgotten the fountain was part of my life.
My old coworker nudged me. “You remember when you used to act like you ain’t see your ex in here?”
“Man,” I said, laughing through it, “I was security. I saw everybody. I just pretended I was blind sometimes.”
He cackled. “Selective eyesight. A classic.”
We walked and talked and laughed until I felt that tightness inside me loosen—like the last eight years had been a coat I could finally hang up.
At one point, we stopped in the middle of the concourse.
The Rally’s girl—no, not Rally’s girl anymore—stood beside me.
“This is your last walk,” she said softly. “For real.”
I looked at her. “Who are you?”
She smiled, and for a second I swear her eyes reflected the Christmas lights like tiny stars.
“I’m the reminder,” she said. “That you don’t have to be fully healed to come home.”
I swallowed hard. “Why me?”
She tilted her head the way she did at the drive-thru. “Because you see people. You see beauty where other folks see ‘just’ a job. ‘Just’ a drive-thru. ‘Just’ a mall.”
She gestured around us. “This place was never ‘just’ a mall.”
I nodded slowly, the truth settling into me.
We kept walking.
And then, near the end—near an old entrance—I saw him.
A younger version of me.
Security uniform. Fresh haircut. Walkie on his hip. Trying to look tough. Trying to look like nothing bothered him.
He looked up and caught my eye.
And he smiled like, So you made it.
I felt something crack open in my chest, and my eyes burned.
The Rally’s girl touched my arm.
“Take a breath,” she said. “You don’t have to carry everything.”
I exhaled.
The Christmas bells rang louder then, like the mall itself was saying goodbye.
One by one, the lights in the storefronts dimmed—not sad, but peaceful. Like candles being blown out after a good meal.
My old friends gathered around, shoulders touching, laughing softly, sharing little memories like they were trading gifts.
My coworker clapped me on the back.
“Don’t stay gone so long next time,” he said.
“I won’t,” I promised.
The Rally’s girl stepped closer and held something out to me.
A small key.
Simple. Silver.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A door,” she said. “Not to this place. To the next thing.”
I looked at her, confused.
She smiled again. “You’re a talent scout, right? Then go find talent. Go build something that feels like this—warm, safe, full of style and life.”
I stared at the key in my palm.
“And when you doubt it,” she added, “remember what I told you.”
I looked up.
“You find the greatest things—”
“In the unlikeliest places,” she finished.
The warmth around us faded gently. Like a dream ending on purpose.
And when I blinked again, I was back outside, standing by that plain metal door.
Snow still falling.
The mall still dark.
The parking lot still quiet.
But my hand still holding the key.
I walked back to my car, heart full, mind racing.
Because maybe the mall did close.
But something in me opened.
And for the first time since I came back to Norfolk, I wasn’t just looking for nostalgia.
I was ready to create it.
Real-world note : Norfolk’s Economic Development Authority announced plans for Military Circle Mall to cease operations by the end of 2022, with demolition slated to begin in the first quarter of 2023. City of Norfolk News coverage around the mall’s final holiday season reported it would close in early January 2023. News 3 WTKR Norfolk (Many references list the permanent closing date as Jan. 31, 2023.) Wikipe
See your around! Around the Circle that never closes.
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