Solomon’s heart pounded as he tried to maintain his composure, the years of military discipline kicking in to keep his voice steady. “I’m not moving. This is my son’s day, and I have every right to be here.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mixture of disbelief and solidarity. The elderly woman beside Solomon reached over and patted his hand, her gesture a subtle but powerful act of support. Yet the guards didn’t relent, their faces unyielding, as if rehearsing a script that hadn’t accounted for the human element in their roles.
