sterile, suffocating heat of justice and accusation.
For a long moment, he hesitated. The world outside the courtroom was indifferent. Inside, every glance, every whisper, every echo of past grief demanded his decision.
Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, Chema lifted the envelope, fingers brushing the paper that could save or condemn him. His voice was barely audible: “I… I will trust you.”
The courtroom seemed to exhale with him. The judge leaned forward, pen poised. The woman nodded once, sharply, and stepped back. Chema’s heart pounded like it never
had before, a storm of fear, relief, and anticipation.
The girls clung to each other, waiting. Every eye in the room followed him, as though they too were suspended in the same breathless moment. He had chosen, and the consequences would unfold immediately.
He could feel his pulse echoing in his ears. The decision was irreversible. Whatever happened next, he had crossed a line from which there was no return, stepping into truth or illusion, and hoping he had chosen wisely.
As the envelope was opened, Chema noticed a small,
