The Witness refused to swear.

In the courtroom, everyone spoke in absolutes. The prosecutor wanted a clean narrative: motive, action, consequence. The defense wanted the same narrative with inverted labels.

Evidence is not a feeling — it's a trail you can walk.

The Witness wanted to talk about fog. About distance. About how memory edits itself to become coherent.

“Did you see him?” the judge asked.

“I saw a shape I associate with him,” the Witness replied.

The room laughed — not because it was funny, but because it was inconvenient.

Most certainty is rented, not owned.

Outside, a journalist asked, “Why won’t you just say yes or no?”

The Witness answered, “Because yes and no are the cheapest words in the language, and the most expensive in court.”

When a system punishes nuance, it manufactures certainty.