The scales.

"The truth does not comfort — but it always holds."

There was a man who did not really belong anywhere.

He was not loud, he was not spectacular, and he never stood in the middle.

He always stayed a little to the side — where it was easier to see what was tipping.

People often brought their things to him.

They did not ask for much.

Just one sentence, one decision, one justification:

"Am I right?"

And he listened to them.

He did not rush to answer.

Not because he did not know, but because he knew: the truth rarely resides in the first sentence.

Some were offended.

Some became impatient.

And some never came back.

But those who stayed noticed that when he spoke, he did not give an excuse.

He did not caress.

He did not make excuses.

He just put the scales on the table.

It did not matter to him how much he suffered.

It's not who is loud.

It's not who has the strength.

Just:

what you did — and why.

Once someone said to him angrily:

- It's easy for you. You don't feel how hard it is.

The man looked at him and replied quietly:

- But I feel it. I just won't let you make an excuse out of it.

That's when the other understood why so few people would stick by him.

Because the pure truth didn't hurt — but it wouldn't let you get away with it either.

The man went home that evening.

There was no applause.

There was no thank you.

Just the knowledge that the scales hadn't tipped today either.

And this — although no one saw it — made the world a little easier again.

Some people smooth, and some people hold.

The smoothing passes.

The holding remains.

The scales don't ask for love, only honesty.

And whoever stands before them can never be the same again.

We remain silent.

Not because there is nothing to say — but because what is important…

You have already said it.