The Nasugbu Regional Trial Court was a monument of old, stern concrete. A small crowd of reporters and curious townsfolk gathered outside, their murmurs creating a low hum of anticipation.
I walked up the steps with my parents flanking me, their presence a solid, comforting weight. Ms. Liza was already there, waiting for us, offering a small, nervous smile.
We didn't speak. We just entered the cool, quiet, wood-paneled hallway, the air smelling of polish and old paper. The door to the courtroom stood like a gateway to the past, and we were about to walk through it.