Just what is evil and what is good? In this world of sinners and saints, what am I? Where do I belong? Does sinning once make me wicked? One kindness, a saint?
The marketplace was alive with sound: the rough barter of vendors, the chatter of children, the rustle of worn sandals against cracked stone. Sunlight spilled over crooked rooftops, throwing long, slanted shadows across the alleyways like blades waiting to strike.
Stop! You thief!
The shout pierced the air as a guard chased a middle aged woman clutching a crumbling piece of bread. She held it to her chest like it was a treasure, though it wasn't enough to feed a child.
The woman and the guard rushed past a hooded figure standing still at the edge of the crowd.
Dust trailed in their wake. Her breath came in sharp gasps; his boots hammered the earth with fury. The loaf of bread—broken, almost crumbling—was held to her chest like a dying hope.
But the figure did not move. He did not raise a hand, nor voice, nor thought—at least, not aloud.
He simply watched.
And as the sound of pursuit faded into the winding streets, a quiet question surfaced in the stillness he carried.
Who is wrong... and who is right? Was it her, for stealing to survive? Him, for enforcing a law that offered no mercy? Or was it those who stood still—like me—watching without lifting a finger? Will I be saint if help the guard uphold the law? A sinner if I helped a lady desperate in surviving? Will there be difference if I didn't stood still? If you don't choose a side, does that make you neutral?...or is the fear of being wrong?
It would be easier to say he didn't care. Simpler.
But it wouldn't be true.
He cared, he just didn't act.
And he simply walked away while carrying the question in his chest. The city was still full of laughter, still lively like the anger and hunger didn't happen.
He walked away, no one noticed. No one looked at him and said, You should've done something.
But he did to himself.
Over and over.
Not out loud.
But he hears it.
And maybe, just maybe, so do you.