dying man, speaking clearly, naming the truth.
The court ordered further investigation.
Then indictments followed.
Fraud.
Forgery.
Conspiracy.
And when the prosecution reopened my case with the new evidence, my conviction didn’t just get questioned.
It got broken.
The day my record was officially cleared, Marisol called and said:
“It’s done.”
I didn’t celebrate.
I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at my hands, because I didn’t know what it felt like to exist without a number attached to my name.
Then the grief hit.
Not about
