I took on cases no one wanted.
And heard stories that made you want to turn off the light.
I’ve heard the laughter of people whose hands were soaked in pain.
And the trembling voices of those who still hold on to hope.
If you’re looking for a fairy tale—close this book.
If you’re searching for the truth—hold on tight.
It’s fragile.
I don’t know if this book will change you.
But I do know this:
some things should never be unknown.
Open the first chapter.
Step inside.
And maybe—just maybe—
you, too, won’t be able to stay silent anymore.
Chapter 1. The Move
I wasn’t leaving to run away—
I was going to begin.
But something still came with me.
Silently. Inside.
My past.
The airport was filled with the breath of other people’s fates.
No one spoke loudly—everyone was either saying goodbye or standing on the edge of something new.
The departure lounge hummed like the sea before a storm.
It smelled of coffee, nervous sweat, and something sweet from duty-free.
I held my passport so tightly,
as if it might take off without me.
Inside—buzzing.
Not from noise,
but from the thought:
“I’ll never be the same when I come back.”
I didn’t know what America smelled like,
how it sounded,
what eyes it looked through.
But I knew: I was flying there.
And I had to.
I landed in Chicago early in the morning.
The August wind off the lake was almost cold—
damp, gritty, real.
From the taxi window, skyscrapers rose through the fog
like islands in milk.
That’s how my life in this city began—
a city where they say the wind changes people.
The law school at the University of Chicago
stood in a gray stone building that looked like a movie version of Harvard—
arched corridors, staircases, benches, ancient trees,
and the eternal buzz of student life.
The voices sounded like a rehearsal
for a massive stage play.
Laughter, debates, hurried footsteps,
doors slamming,
the rumble of suitcase wheels and laptop bags.
I stood in the middle of the courtyard,
like a frozen frame in a film.
Life rushed by around me.
And I just watched.
The dorm smelled of laundry detergent, instant noodles, and other people’s worlds.
My roommate—Jeremy—was tall, red-haired,
and carried a hundred stories on his shoulders.
He talked fast, ate pizza without a plate,
and didn’t ask where I was from.
He just handed me a mug of coffee and said: