The morning I left for the academy, the air in our alley smelled of smoke and wet stone. My mother rose before dawn to bake one last piece of bread for me to carry. She wrapped it in cloth, placed it in my hands, and whispered that it was my armor. My father stood silent at the door, his cough locked in his chest as if he didn't want me to hear it on this day.
Neighbors gathered to watch me go. Some clapped me on the back, proud that one of our own had been chosen. Others stood with folded arms, their eyes sharp. I felt the weight of every gaze. Their hopes, their envy, their doubts, all of it followed me down the narrow street.
The academy gates rose before me, black iron climbing into the sky. Behind them were stone buildings, trimmed gardens, and clean courtyards that looked nothing like the world I knew. Students passed through in neat uniforms, their shoes polished, their voices loud. They laughed as if the world belonged to them. I touched the rough strap of my satchel, patched again and again with my mother's thread, and felt the distance between us.
Inside the classroom, the air smelled of chalk and varnish. Rows of polished desks shone under the light. The professor began with words I had memorized long ago, principles of justice, the foundations of law. My hand raced across the page anyway, copying every line. Around me, some students yawned and tapped their pens. For them, law was inheritance. For me, it was survival.
At lunch, I unwrapped my mother's bread. It was hard and dry, but I chewed it slowly, savoring it as if it were a feast. At nearby tables, students unpacked meat, fruit, even sweets wrapped in silver paper. Their laughter cut through the room. I sat alone by the window, pretending to be absorbed in my notes. But the bread turned to ash in my mouth when I heard them speak of dinners in halls I would never see.
Nights became my sanctuary. While others returned to their warm homes, I stayed in the library, tracing my fingers over books older than the city itself. I read until my vision blurred and the letters swam. Professors began to notice me. "The boy from the alleys works harder than anyone," they said. I clung to those words like rope.
But each time I returned home, guilt met me at the door. My mother's face was thinner. My father's cough came with blood he tried to hide. They told me not to worry, that every sacrifice was worth it. I swallowed my guilt and promised myself it would all be repaid.
One day, I told myself, I would wear the black robe. One day, I would speak in court for people like us. One day, justice would finally answer.
For now, I studied, waiting for the gates I had walked through to reveal what lay beyond their walls.