When Charlie finally lifted his head from the cold courtroom floor, the world around him felt distant, warped by the echo of the judge’s words. He saw blurred faces—some hard with anger, some wet with tears, some emptied out by exhaustion. The chains on his wrists suddenly felt heavier, not as metal, but as years already lost and years yet to come.
His mother’s trembling hands clutched a crumpled tissue, her eyes locked on the son she could no longer reach. A victim’s father stared at Charlie with a gaze carved from grief, not vengeance, as if searching for the boy who had existed before the headlines. As officers moved in to lift him, Charlie didn’t resist. For the first time, he understood this was no longer a story being told about him. It was a sentence everyone in that room would carry.
