The courthouse steps are wider than they need to be.
They rise in pale stone tiers, broad and unforgiving, designed to make everyone who climbs them feel small. A structure built on the assumption that power should loom. That justice should be approached with humility, even fear. Cameras crowd the base, lenses glinting in the morning light. Reporters cluster behind barricades, voices overlapping, questions thrown like hooks meant to snag something raw.
The air hums with anticipation. With judgment. With the kind of attention that once would have sent me spiraling inward, rehearsing apologies I did not owe, shrinking myself before anyone asked.
Today, it doesn’t.
I walk beside Damian, my hand resting lightly on his arm, my head held high. He does not guide me. He does not shield me with
