The video spread fast.
What had been a hallway scuffle became a phenomenon online. Memes, cruel comments, message chains. Mark was the predictable bully, David the helpless victim, and Lucy… Lucy was "the boy who did nothing."
Some defended him: "He tried to stop it, it's clear."
Others tore him apart: "He just stood there like an idiot. If he's so smart, why didn't he act?"
Every notification was a reminder of his failure. He couldn't walk the halls without hearing whispers. Some looked at him with pity; others with disdain. Even his old friends kept their distance, as if afraid his passivity might rub off on them.
Emily didn't greet him all week. The pink thread between them looked ready to snap. Lucy felt it vibrate every time she glanced at him, heavy with disappointment.
In history class, the teacher split them into groups. Lucy ended up with three classmates who once chatted easily with him. Now they watched in awkward silence. One finally broke it:
"Hey, why didn't you just punch Mark?" he asked, half mocking, half curious.
Lucy lowered his gaze. He wanted to tell the truth—that he had seen more than they could imagine, that his eyes revealed the inside of both boys. But he couldn't. So he muttered:
"Not everything is solved with fists."
The words convinced no one. One scoffed, another rolled his eyes. The rumor grew louder: "Lucy thinks he's a philosopher, but he's just a coward."
That night, exhausted, he opened his notebook. His grandfather's firm handwriting still stared back:
"The judge does not act to be seen. He acts so the truth comes to light."
"Easy for you to say…" Lucy muttered, gripping his pencil.
He looked at his reflection, remembered his weak voice in the hallway, the guilt. Then it struck him: what if he practiced in secret? Not in big fights, but in small, controlled situations
The next day his "training" began.
At recess, he saw two classmates arguing over a borrowed book. The yellow thread between them was taut. One swore he'd returned it; the other called him a liar. Lucy stepped closer, nervous, and tried to apply the Sentence.
"I heard you in the library," he said calmly. "You said you'd keep the book until the weekend."
The accused boy froze. He opened his mouth to deny it… but couldn't. He looked down and muttered:
"Yeah… you're right. I forgot."
A shiver ran through Lucy. It worked.
The rest of the day he tried again. Some attempts failed: in a sports debate, he mixed opinions with facts and was ignored. In another, with a teacher, nerves made his words stumble. But each attempt taught him something: the Sentence wasn't automatic magic. It was vision, truth, conviction.
That night he wrote in his notebook:
Truth must be whole, not fragmented.
The Sentence only works if I believe it myself.
Tone matters as much as words.
Looking out his window before sleep, he thought he saw again the silhouette under the streetlight, still, watching. Maybe imagination. But this time, instead of fear, he felt something else: a challenge.
Maybe he had failed with David. But he was beginning to learn.
The echo of rumor had branded him. Practice, however clumsy, had given him a first step.
Lucy closed his notebook firmly.
Next time, he would not be "the boy who did nothing."