Inside, the air was cooler, the voices hushed, an echo of the authority that seemed to seep from the walls.
I approached the security checkpoint, my mind a blur of thoughts and what-ifs.
“Empty your pockets,” a guard instructed, his voice cutting through my fog.
I nodded, fumbling with the contents of my bag.
Each item felt like evidence of a life in transition—a phone with unanswered messages, a wallet lighter than it should be, keys to an apartment that didn’t feel like home yet.
“You’re clear,” the guard said, waving me through.
I thanked him, though the words felt heavy on my tongue.
The hallway beyond was long, lined with doors that held futures and pasts.
I found the courtroom where my case would be heard, the nameplate outside impersonal, just another number in a system I was trying to navigate.
I sat on a bench, the wood uncomfortable beneath me, and waited.
Others around me were engrossed in their own worlds, their own dramas.
I felt invisible, just another face in the crowd.
My lawyer arrived, a briefcase in hand, a nod my only greeting.
“Ready?” he asked, though it felt more like a formality than genuine concern.
“As I’ll ever be,” I replied, summoning a courage I wasn’t sure I possessed.
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