In the Room With No Jury

There’s a scent the old panes give off—like rain left too long on iron, or the lining of a forgotten trunk. I remember the way marsh water seeps into stone, pooling to reflect a ceiling that’s not there. Sometimes, in the hush before judging panels assemble, you can almost hear the chairs creak with anticipation, then settle back into dust. I wanted to set the image loose—the flicker of a back turned away, the glimmer of fireflies that persist whether they’re seen or not. The projection slips from the glass to the wall to the floor, tangled in its own uncertain edges. It’s never whole when you face it. Maybe it’s something to do with validation, maybe just the way a room breathes after everyone has left. I tried to hold the atmosphere that gathers before a storm or after a verdict—where hands reach for nothing and that is, somehow, enough.