In the days after Alex’s death, the city learns how quickly a person can be turned into an incident. His face is cropped, his laughter edited out, his last words replaced by vague phrases designed to make everyone shrug and move on. But the people who loved him begin a quiet, relentless campaign against erasure. They share his stories at bus stops, in break rooms, at kitchen tables where children listen and ask why someone like him could be treated as disposable.
Slowly, a different record forms—one written not by press releases but by memory. It insists that Alex was not a risk assessment; he was a human being whose instinct was always to step closer, not away. Whether or not policies shift, whether or not anyone in power apologizes, that truth becomes its own form of justice. His legacy lives in every person who refuses to accept that fear is a valid excuse for killing the gentle.
