The courtroom didn't look the way I imagined it would.
No drama.
No chaos.
No sudden gasps echoing through the hall.
Just wood.
Paper.
Silence sharpened into attention.
I sat at the witness table, hands folded, spine straight, heart steady in a way that surprised even me.
Across the room, power had changed shape.
No private rooms.
No shadowed corners.
No soft voices making decisions for everyone else.
Just people who once believed they were untouchable—now very much within reach.
The judge nodded.
"You may begin," she said.
I inhaled slowly.
"My name is Aarvi Malhotra," I said clearly. "And I was present the night Arjun Malhotra disappeared."
A ripple moved through the room—not shock, but recognition.
Because the world already knew the headline.
This was about detail now.
"I witnessed an argument at a private pier," I continued. "I saw a decision being made—not in panic, not in grief—but in calculation."
I didn't look at her.
I didn't need to.
"I later experienced memory suppression," I said. "Selective. Precise. Designed to leave me functional but uncertain. To make me doubt my own reality."
The defense lawyer shifted.
"Objection—"
"Sustained in part," the judge said. "Stick to facts."
I nodded.
"The medical order was authorized without my consent," I continued. "The individual who signed it has since confessed. Record evidence supports this."
I paused.
Then added the part that mattered most.
"I was not confused," I said. "I was made uncertain."
Silence settled deeper.
"They didn't erase my memory," I said. "They weaponized my doubt."
Riyan sat behind me, unmoving.
Arjun's presence was steady at my side—alive, undeniable.
"And when I began to remember," I continued, "the threats returned. Because memory was the one variable they couldn't fully control."
The judge leaned forward slightly.
"Why come forward now?" she asked.
I met her gaze.
"Because forgetting nearly destroyed three lives," I said. "And remembering saved them."
No applause followed.
Only stillness.
The kind that meant the words had landed exactly where they were meant to.
When I stepped down, my legs trembled—not from fear, but from release.
Riyan met me halfway, his hand firm at my back.
"You did it," he murmured.
"No," I replied softly. "I told the truth."
Outside, cameras waited.
Questions lined the steps.
But for once, I didn't rush.
I stood there in the open air, sunlight warm on my face, and felt something settle inside me.
Closure wasn't loud.
Justice wasn't immediate.
But memory—
Memory had finally been believed.
And that was enough to change everything.