Autumn 1985.
Uriel was six years old when he started school.
The night before the first day, his father dyed his hair as always. The cheap black dye had become a silent ritual between them — the sharp chemical smell, the careful strokes of the brush, the quiet mirror. Uriel no longer cried. He simply sat still and watched the white disappear.
At school, everything moved faster than anyone expected.
He read quicker than the other children and answered questions before most of them had even understood what was being asked. The teachers were first impressed, then uneasy. They whispered to each other when they thought he couldn't hear:
"This boy… he's different."
But the other children never knew why. Uriel was careful. He never took off his cap, not even during breaks. He kept his head down when someone came too close. No one ever saw the white roots. To them, the truth simply didn't exist.
At home his father was growing weaker.
By 1988 Reza could barely leave his bed. The cancer had taken most of his strength, but every evening when Uriel returned from school, his father would wait for him. His voice was thin, yet his eyes were still alive.
"You think differently," he would say quietly. "That's enough for now. The rest… you'll understand later."
Uriel only nodded. His father no longer spoke of special gifts or great destinies. He simply said that Uriel saw the world in his own way. And that was enough.
In the spring of 1990, when Uriel was eleven, his father died.
Only four people came to the funeral. Uriel stood alone beside the grave and watched the earth fall onto the coffin. His hair was still perfectly black — the dye was fresh.
When he returned home that evening, he picked up the bottle of black dye and stood in front of the cracked mirror.
He stared at his reflection for a long time. Then he slowly placed the bottle back on the table and whispered:
"Not yet."
The hair would stay black. For a long time still.