Meenzhas
In a small town where dusty books lined the shelves of a forgotten library, there lived a girl named Mira. She was quiet, with a gaze always searching for something hidden behind people's words. While other children dreamed of palaces and adventures, Mira dreamed of standing in a court, speaking with such strength that no injustice could go unanswered.
Her dream began with a simple moment. At school, a boy was accused of breaking a window. The teacher scolded him, certain he lied, but Mira saw the truth flicker in his trembling eyes. She raised her hand, her voice steady:
"He couldn't have done it. He was with me in the library."
It was then she realized words, when spoken with courage, could shield someone like steel.
Mira grew up listening more than speaking-listening to her grandmother's stories, to neighbors arguing about unfair taxes, to classmates whispering about rules that never made sense. Every word was a puzzle piece shaping who she wanted to be: a lawyer, not for wealth, but for voices too small or too afraid to be heard.
One evening, under the orange glow of sunset, Mira sat by her window with a heavy book of laws borrowed from the library. The words were complicated, tangled like roots. Yet she smiled. To her, they weren't barriers but keys-keys to open locked doors for others.
Her father, watching her struggle with the thick book, chuckled:
"Why fight with those dry pages, Mira? Isn't it easier to choose another dream?"
She looked up, her eyes bright with determination.
"Because someone has to, Baba. Someone has to stand beside those who can't."
Years later, Mira walked into her first courtroom, her heart racing. She remembered the boy with the broken window, the stories she carried, and the promise she made to herself that evening.
And when she spoke, her voice was no longer the soft murmur of a shy girl-it was the voice of justice itself.