Morning light spreads across the courthouse lawn, the frost thin enough to crunch but not shine.
The flag rises at half speed; the clerk inside aligns her stamps and checks the ink.
Routine opens the building, as it has every weekday since the riot that turned into an anniversary.
On television the crowd climbs again—jackets, banners, shouting faces—compressed now into a minute-long montage that every network airs before traffic and weather.
Two years have thinned the outrage but not the argument.
The captions promise context; the commentary offers closure.
Neither lands.
Across town a teacher hangs her porch flag, edges frayed from two winters of wind.
She taught civics for thirty years, once reciting the phrase orderly transfer of power until it sounded like proof.
The phrase is gone from the curriculum now; she keeps the old binder marked archived material beside a stack of grocery receipts.
She still checks the headlines each morning, reading the names of those sentenced and wondering if her former students recognize any.
At lunch the courthouse cafeteria fills with talk of fuel prices, frozen pipes, and a new subdivision going up by the river.
A muted television scrolls the same words as last year: reflection, unity, healing.
No one reads them aloud.
The deputy eats his sandwich, scrolling headlines that look like reruns.
By dusk the steps dry under a weak sun.
A boy drags a stick along the railing, tracing a thin rhythm that echoes in the marble.
The sound is small, persistent, ordinary—the way history survives when belief runs out.
Inside, the clerk files the final document of the day and switches off the light.
Outside, the flag flutters once and stills.