Courtroom No. 4 was already half full when Aarav entered.
Wooden benches creaked under shifting bodies. Lawyers murmured. A constable leaned against the wall, bored and watchful at the same time.
Aarav took his seat and opened the file.
Prosecution Witness No. 7: Mahesh Solanki.
Occupation: Scrap dealer.
Statement recorded: Eleven years ago.
Alive. Available. Willing.
On paper, at least.
The judge arrived. Everyone rose.
The case was called.
The public prosecutor stood up confidently. "My Lord, the prosecution calls Witness Number Seven."
Mahesh Solanki walked in slowly.
He was thinner than his photograph. His eyes darted around the courtroom as if searching for exits. He avoided looking at the accused.
Aarav noticed that immediately.
The oath was administered.
Mahesh swallowed hard.
"State your name for the record," the prosecutor said.
"Mahesh Solanki."
"Do you remember the night of the incident?"
Mahesh nodded. "Yes."
"What did you see?"
Mahesh hesitated. Just for a second.
"I saw the accused running away," he said. "There was blood on his shirt."
A murmur spread across the courtroom.
The prosecutor smiled slightly and sat down.
Aarav stood.
"Good morning, Mr. Solanki."
Mahesh glanced at him and nodded.
"You said you saw the accused running away?"
"Yes."
"At what time?"
"Around ten," Mahesh replied quickly.
Aarav flipped a page. "Ten p.m.?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
Mahesh frowned. "Yes."
Aarav held up a document. "This is your original statement to the police. You stated the time as eleven-thirty."
Mahesh stiffened.
"I… I don't remember exactly," he said.
"That's understandable," Aarav said calmly. "It has been eleven years."
He paused.
"But you also said the streetlight near the shop was working that night."
Mahesh nodded. "Yes."
Aarav nodded too. "Interesting."
He turned to the judge. "My Lord, may I?"
The judge gestured for him to continue.
Aarav looked back at Mahesh. "According to the municipal records, that streetlight was not functional for three months, including the date of the incident."
Mahesh's throat moved.
"I—I might be mistaken."
Aarav leaned slightly forward. "About the time, the light, or the man?"
Mahesh did not answer.
The prosecutor stood up. "Objection, My Lord. The witness is under pressure."
Aarav replied without turning. "Truth often feels like pressure."
The judge raised a hand. "Overruled. Answer the question."
Mahesh wiped sweat from his forehead.
"I saw someone," he said quietly. "I assumed it was him."
Aarav's voice remained steady. "Assumed."
"Yes."
"You did not see his face clearly?"
"No."
"You did not speak to him?"
"No."
"You did not chase him?"
"No."
Aarav nodded. "So what you saw was a figure. In the dark. Under a streetlight that was not working."
Mahesh said nothing.
The courtroom was silent now.
Aarav closed the file gently. "No further questions."
The judge made a note.
The prosecutor looked uneasy.
As Mahesh stepped down, he avoided everyone's eyes.
The judge spoke. "Witness may leave."
Mahesh turned toward the exit—and froze.
A man stood near the door. Well dressed. Unfamiliar. Smiling.
Their eyes met.
Mahesh's face drained of color.
He looked back at the judge. "My Lord," he blurted, "I… I need to correct something."
The courtroom stirred.
The prosecutor spun around. "What is this?"
Mahesh's voice trembled. "I did not come here willingly."
Aarav's eyes sharpened.
"What do you mean?" the judge asked.
Mahesh swallowed. "I was told what to say."
The courtroom erupted.
The prosecutor shouted objections. The constable moved forward. Lawyers stood up at once.
The judge banged the gavel. "Order!"
Mahesh pointed toward the door. "They said if I changed my statement, my family would suffer."
The man at the door was gone.
Aarav felt it then.
The case was no longer old.
It was alive.
The judge adjourned the matter abruptly.
As people began to leave, the prosecutor avoided Aarav's gaze.
Aarav packed his file slowly.
This was not a witness problem.
This was a system problem.
Outside the courtroom, Aarav's phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Message:
Stop calling witnesses who want to remember. Some truths are protected.
Aarav slipped the phone back into his pocket.
"Good," he murmured. "So is the law."