Lawrence Dryden, a 30-year-old Black man from Detroit, Michigan, died and left behind a silence that doesn’t fit neatly into any paragraph. Even without the particulars of where his final hours unfolded or what the city sounded like around him that day, his name alone carries the weight of a life that mattered—one that held routines, relationships, and ordinary moments that suddenly became unbearably precious in hindsight.
Detroit is a place built on movement: work shifts beginning be
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