Lucy's neighborhood had always shown two faces. By day, shopkeepers greeted customers with weary smiles and kids played between old cars. By night, the flickering bar lights filled the streets with murmurs and arguments that stretched until dawn.
That afternoon, after school, Lucy walked alone. He needed air, distance from the noise of school and the weight of his mistakes. Rain had left puddles on the sidewalks and the smell of wet earth lingered.
The small corner market was crowded. Lucy went in, planning to buy cookies. That's when he heard it: a harsh, cutting voice.
"I said give it to me without paying!"
A man in a worn jacket and scruffy beard had the young cashier by the collar. In his other hand gleamed a rusty knife. Customers backed away, hiding behind shelves. Fear filled the air like smoke.
Lucy froze. The threads appeared at once:
Between the thief and the cashier, a black strand pulsed violently.
Over the man, multiple dark tones: desperation, anger, hunger.
And faintly, a weak green thread stretching outward, as if to someone far away.
His grandfather's voice echoed: "The judge doesn't choose when judgment comes. Judgment comes when it must."
Lucy swallowed hard. His heart pounded, but he knew he couldn't just stand there.
"Hey!" he shouted, stepping forward.
The man turned on him, furious.
"Get out, kid!"
Lucy's eyes burned. Visions flooded in: the man searching for coins in an empty drawer, arguing with a sick woman on a bed, stealing bread the night before. He wasn't just a criminal. He was someone trapped in desperation.
The words came trembling, but steady:
"You're not here for the money. You're here because someone at home needs medicine. And you don't have the means to pay."
Silence fell. The man's eyes widened. The cashier blinked.
The Sentence had worked. The thief lowered the knife, shoulders shaking.
"How… how do you know that?" he whispered.
Lucy didn't answer. He knew he had said enough.
The man ran, dropping the knife. No one followed. The cashier collapsed into his chair, trembling, while customers whispered. Some looked at Lucy with awe, others with suspicion.
He, however, only felt the weight of what he'd done. He had prevented tragedy… but had also exposed someone's hidden pain before strangers.
That night he wrote in his notebook:
The Sentence can stop violence.
But it always leaves scars.
What right do I have to reveal truths that aren't mine?
Looking out the window, he saw again the silhouette under the streetlight. Still. Watching.
Lucy yanked the curtain shut, heart pounding.
He knew that sooner or later, he would have to face not only the threads of karma… but also those who understood that power.