Now it felt distant.
Like watching a documentary about someone else’s life.
I closed the file and saved it back to the archive.
I did not delete it.
Evidence was evidence, and I was not naive enough to believe everything was permanently resolved.
But I did not need to watch it again.
I carried my laptop to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine, and walked out to the back patio. The Denver night was warm, the stars partly visible through the city glow. Pixel followed me, weaving between my ankles before settling on the chair beside me.
“They thought I was weak,” I said aloud.
To Pixel.
To myself.
To no one in particular.
“They thought silence meant acceptance.”
I looked back through the glass door at the living room I had chosen, furnished, paid for, and protected.
The cameras in the corners of my house kept their quiet watch.
