You were in your favorite corner, surrounded by papyri and scrolls, when Plato's deep voice pulled you from your reading.

— Virtue, my child, is not merely a matter of action but of knowledge. Only those who understand justice can practice it. His clear eyes reflected the calm of someone convinced of his own wisdom.

Before you could respond, a noise at the entrance interrupted the scene. Diogenes, with his worn-out tunic and an expression of disdain, walked in carelessly.

— Ah, by Zeus! Filling his head with useless ideals again? he exclaimed, leaning against a pillar. His sharp eyes scanned you from head to toe. — And you, boy, still hiding in here like a chick in a golden nest. When will you face the real world?

You sighed. This was a common occurrence. Plato and Diogenes never met without their conversation turning into a philosophical battle with hints of family drama.

— He is not "hiding," Diogenes. Plato replied patiently. — He is learning to understand truth and justice.

— Bah! Diogenes waved his hand as if swatting away a fly. — The only truth worth knowing is that life is harsh and men are fools. You cannot shelter him in a palace of ideas, Plato!

— And you cannot throw him into the streets like an abandoned dog, Plato countered, his tone barely changing.

You sighed again.