The Verdict Was Mercy Before You Spoke

The afternoon stretches out, long and gray, and you are still rehearsing the speech. You are polishing the apology for a truth that required no forgiveness, building a case against yourself for a crime that never happened.

The light does not need your defense. It saw the moment you spoke, and it did not flinch.

There is a father who watched his son coming home from a long way off, rehearsing words of shame, and the father ran before the speech could even begin. You are carrying a weight the light never asked you to lift.

The middle of the day is hard enough without adding the burden of a imaginary trial. Put the script down.

The verdict was mercy before you opened your mouth.