Justice. Justice, not just. Not just her hands or his hips. Not just his lips or her mouth. Not just one voice; not just one body. Not just the scribe. I think I understand now. You are gods of cruelty, and so I look for cruelty from you. You are gods of punishment, and so I do not look for praise from you. I assumed justice must be the falling sword, the heavy heart tipping the scales. I never imagined… I never dared wonder for a moment what it might be like… in a world of impossibilities, that was the most impossible. Is my heart, perhaps, not as heavy as a feather? Or for me did you, if only once, slip your thumb onto the other scale? A scribe doesn’t expect recognition. A scribe doesn’t expect thanks. A scribe doesn’t expect justice. Forgive me, then, for seeing mockery in mercy. There’s so much to believe in… even myself. But I think I understand now. Justice, not just. Not just her hands or your hips. Not just your lips or her mouth. Not just one voice; not just one body; not just one soul. Not just the scribe. Never just. That’s the meaning of justice.