The winter worsened. Our alley froze over, the stones slick with ice. Smoke from damp wood stung the air. I returned from the academy one evening to find neighbors gathered outside our door, their faces grave.
Inside, my father lay still. The coughing had ended. His chest no longer rose. My mother knelt beside him, clutching his hand, her face hollowed by grief and hunger. She had baked bread that morning, but it remained untouched on the table. The smell filled the room, heavy, unbearable.
I stood frozen in the doorway, the satchel still hanging from my shoulder. I had imagined this moment for years, yet when it came, I was unprepared. My father's silence was louder than all his coughs put together.
We buried him in the common ground outside the city walls. No priest, no marble stone, only a wooden marker with his name scratched by my hand. My mother wept quietly. I did not. My tears stayed locked inside my chest, hard and burning.
After the burial, neighbors gave their condolences, but I heard the same words repeated: "At least your son will make it. At least he will rise." Their eyes turned to me, expecting me to carry not only my father's memory but their hopes as well. I nodded without speaking.
At the academy, I drowned myself in work. I studied until the candles died, until the letters blurred. Professors praised my diligence. Some students respected my memory, calling me relentless. But their pity stung worse than their mockery ever had.
Dorian still laughed through lectures. He bragged about dinners, about his father's influence, about the judges he had already been introduced to. He called me "the pauper advocate" when his friends laughed. I clenched my fists under the desk, nails cutting my palms, but I stayed silent.
Every night I returned to my mother. She baked bread alone now, her hands thinner, her back bent. She placed food before me and claimed she had eaten earlier, though I knew it was a lie. I forced myself to swallow, each bite turning to stone in my throat.
One evening, as I sat with her, she said, "Your father believed in nothing. But I believe in you. Don't lose yourself, Elias."
Her words should have comforted me. Instead, they felt like chains.
I promised myself again that I would fight for justice, that my father's death would not be meaningless. But deep inside, the vow tasted bitter. Because I had begun to suspect what he had always known: the law was not meant for us.
And still, I pushed forward. Blind faith was all I had left.