Law of Tears

In the final years of the Roman Empire, the Senate chambers echoed with chaos rather than wisdom. Rome, once the center of civilization, now teetered on the edge of collapse—plagued by greed, incompetence, and paranoia.

Among the latest proposals debated in the marbled halls was a peculiar law—Lex Lacrimarum, the "Law of Tears." Its purpose? To ban public crying at funerals.

“This shall end the shameful hiring of mourners!” declared Senator Cassianus, pounding his fist on the podium. “Let sorrow be real or not at all!”

The chamber burst into arguments. Some senators laughed, others cheered, and a few dared to object.

“But grief is human!” protested Senator Aurelia, one of the few voices of reason. “You cannot legislate emotion. What’s next—banning sighs or whispers?”

But Aurelia’s words were lost in the noise. The law passed.

Soon, absurdity ruled the funerals of Rome. Mourners stood in forced silence. Even children were hushed by guards if they whimpered. Priests spoke of passing to the afterlife with straight faces. And actors—the once-paid weepers—stood unemployed, confused, and quietly mocking the state in taverns.

Behind this madness was a desperate government, afraid of unrest, afraid of losing control over the narrative. They believed silence would mask decay.

But in the quiet, the rot only grew louder.

A graffiti appeared on the walls of Rome one morning, scrawled in bold charcoal letters:

“The closer the collapse of the Empire, the crazier its laws are.”

People whispered the line at night, smiling sadly. They understood now—no empire falls in silence. It falls in laughter, tears, and the madness of pretending all is well.