Five pages. Five precise cuts into certainty. I closed the " book ", but I didn't feel like it had ended, rather I felt like I have been measured, weighed against something unclear, and left to consider whether I had ever really understood what truth costs when no one's watching.
This story didn't explain itself, but it taught me more than if it had, because I saw something I rarely do in fiction - the presence of a soul acting not for spectacle, but for its own survival. Now, I think about the character in a strange way, as a possibility of how the need for justice does not always align with the structures built to deliver it.
The story doesn't preach, it doesn't turn into a moral lesson, or an accusation. It reminded me of Kafka's The Trial, in a way, but here is still something different. Actually, I feel like I didn't read the story, but the story read me. There is no hero, only a pattern, and justice wasn't pronounced, but it was felt, like the deafening silence before a storm. I didn't find places, nor streets or rooms, but rooms inside people.
What Borges did in these pages seems more like an equation without numbers. Only emotions, angles, and ...breath.
Now , if someone would ask me what justice is, I would no longer answer. I would ask them to feel what five pages can do.
I would say that the words didn't say everything. But everything was there. In five pages.
Perhaps that is the power of brevity - no, not to simplify, but to distill the complexity so fully , that nothing remains, except the question we try hardest to avoid.