Austin
The heavy oak doors creak open, their ancient hinges protesting as we step into the courthouse. A wall of sound washes over us – hushed whispers, the rustle of papers, the soft squeak of shoes on polished floors. The air inside is cool and dry, tinged with the musty scent of old books and furniture polish.
Families cluster in small groups, their faces etched with a mix of hope and anxiety. An elderly couple clutches each other's hands, their weathered fingers intertwined. A young mother bounces a fussy toddler on her hip, her eyes darting nervously around the room. In a far corner, a teenage boy slouches in his chair, feigning indifference even as his leg bounces with nervous energy.
I feel the weight of curious glances, some sympathetic, others questioning. The unspoken judgment
