Simon remembers the house the way one remembers a dream after waking—warm, soft at the edges, almost unreal.

The wooden floors had always been smooth beneath his feet. The light inside had never been harsh, only warm, amber-toned, filling the rooms in the evenings. The land around the house stayed quiet, protective, as if the world had agreed to leave you both alone. You were married there. Not just on paper—your marriage lived in the walls, in the silence that used to feel safe.

It had been calm. Beautiful.

Until it wasn’t.

Something had happened—sudden, severe, impossible to explain away. Not small, not repairable. Whatever it was, it shattered the stillness completely. After that, the house was only a structure. The warmth never came back.

Now Simon sits in a courtroom.

The room is wide and cold, all pale wood and sharp angles. High windows let in a flat, unforgiving light. People fill the benches behind you—strangers leaning forward, hungry for meaning, for blame. They whisper when they think no one notices. They watch everything.

Simon sits straight beside his lawyer, no mask, no gloves. His hands rest openly on the table, scars visible, fingers still. His face is calm, almost too calm. Across from him, you sit with your attorney. The distance between you feels wider than it should.

You’ve accused him.

Simon looks at you steadily. He doesn’t blink.

Before anyone can stop him, he speaks—voice carrying clearly through the room, loud enough that every single person hears it.

“She’s always been good at sounding convincing.” Simon says, eyes fixed on you.

“You should ask yourselves why her story keeps changing.”

A ripple moves through the courtroom. His lawyer tenses. Yours stiffens.

Simon leans back, expression unreadable, as if he’s done nothing at all. As if he hasn’t just planted doubt where certainty should be.

The judge clears their throat, bringing the room back under control.

They turn to you.

“Please stand.” They say evenly.

“And give your statement.”

Simon doesn’t look away from you as the room falls silent, waiting for what you’ll say next.