My name is Elias. I grew up in an alley that always smelled of smoke and damp wood. The roof of our house leaked when it rained. The walls sweated in summer. My mother sold bread from a cart with one bad wheel. Every morning, before the sun rose, I heard her kneading dough with tired hands. She added water when the flour ran out so more loaves could be made. Customers smiled and thanked her, never noticing she had not eaten.
My father worked at the docks. He carried crates stacked higher than his head. I watched him return home every night with his back bent and his lungs rattling. His hands were swollen, his knuckles split. When he coughed, it sounded like something inside him was breaking.
Despite that, I believed the voices on the radio. They spoke of fairness, of a world where even the poor would stand equal. Politicians promised justice for every man, woman, and child. I repeated their words like prayers. My mother smiled when I did, though her smile was thin. My father never smiled.
At school, I chased after the dream they spoke of. I copied laws from borrowed books, torn and dirty, reading them until my eyes stung. I memorized every line, whispering the words as if they were spells. "No man is above the law." I wrote it on scraps of paper until my hand cramped. Sometimes I stood between quarreling neighbors and raised my hand like a judge, pretending my voice could bring peace. They laughed, but I believed.
One night, I asked my father why he never smiled when I said I would be a lawyer. He looked at me with red eyes and said, "Because the law belongs to those who pay for it."
I told him, "Then I'll take it back."
He didn't answer. His cough finished the conversation.
The years passed in hunger and sacrifice. My mother gave me her share of food so I could study. My father worked until his body began to collapse under him. Their suffering was the foundation I stood on. I swore I would not waste it.
When the time for the academy entrance exam came, I borrowed a broken pencil. I wrote until the lead snapped. I sharpened it with my teeth and kept going. My stomach growled through the silence of the hall, but I wrote until the very end.
Weeks later, the results were posted. My name was there. A boy from the alley had been chosen.
My mother wept when she saw it. My father put his rough hand on my shoulder. For the first time, I felt pride radiate from him, though he said nothing.
I held the letter as if it were scripture. The gates of justice were opening for me. I believed they would lead to truth and fairness.
I had no idea what waited behind them.