Some places collect stories the way old walls collect dust. The corridor outside Courtroom No.7 felt like one of those places. The benches were steel ones, silver in colour, speaking silently of anxiousness and accusations. They stood in a long row under the harsh white tube lights, cold and patient, as if they had been listening to people’s fears for years. In hour, a name crackled through the old speaker fixed high on the wall. Each time it happened, the corridor changed for a moment. Someone would stop breathing. Someone would stand up. Someone would walk toward the courtroom doors