Spring brought no warmth. The city bloomed with flowers, but in the courts, the air was colder than ever. My cases piled higher, each one ending in the same place: defeat.
One morning, I was assigned to defend a seamstress named Lira. She had been accused of poisoning her employer, a wealthy matron known for cruelty. Lira's hands shook as she held mine, begging me to believe her. Her eyes were raw with tears, her voice hoarse from crying.
"I served her faithfully for ten years," she whispered. "She collapsed at supper, and they blamed me. I swear I never touched her food."
I believed her instantly. I gathered evidence, interviewed neighbors, even found the matron's own son who admitted she had enemies eager for her downfall. My file grew thick with proof. For the first time, I felt a spark of hope. This would be the case. This would show the courts that truth still mattered.
The trial began. I spoke with all the fire in my soul. I laid out the contradictions in the accusations, the motives of others who stood to gain from the matron's death. I brought witnesses, each one trembling as they told the truth. The jury seemed to listen. Even the judge leaned forward.
Then the prosecutor entered. He was an old man with silver hair and a voice smooth as oil. He carried no files, no witnesses. He needed none. He spoke briefly, confidently, and then placed a hand on the judge's desk. A subtle gesture, but enough. The judge's eyes hardened.
The verdict was swift: guilty.
Lira screamed as they bound her hands. She turned to me with a look I will never forget, not anger, not blame, but despair so deep it hollowed me out. She was dragged away while I stood frozen, unable to move, my mouth dry as ash.
Afterward, I found the prosecutor in the corridor. He laughed with the judge, their hands exchanging a folded note that vanished into a sleeve. They didn't even lower their voices. Their laughter echoed down the hall like a curse.
That night, I couldn't return home. I wandered the streets, the alleys where I had grown up. The smell of bread still clung to the air, though the bakery stalls were closed. I thought of my mother waiting, of the bread she would have saved for me. I thought of Lira in chains, her life crushed under boots of men who never touched hunger.
I lifted my eyes to the sky. The stars seemed blind, the heavens silent. And for the first time, I cursed them.
If gods ruled above, they were deaf. If justice lived, it was buried deep, strangled by gold.
The words tore from my throat in the darkness: "If justice is yours, then damn you for hoarding it!"
The city did not answer. Only the silence of the night pressed back, heavy and suffocating.
But something had shifted inside me. The last thread of hope was breaking. The man who had once believed was dying, and something darker was waiting to be born.