Two men lived in the same city, on the same street, separated by a single gate. On one side, a man dressed in purple and fine linen who feasted every single day — walls freshly whitewashed, courtyard cool and fragrant, every comfort arranged perfectly around him. On the other side, a man named Lazarus, lying in the dust, covered in sores, hungry enough to long for the scraps that fell from the rich man's table. The dogs that passed through the street noticed him. The rich man did not.
They lived this way for years. And then, as happens to every person who has ever drawn breath, death came for both of them.