Daniel Nguyen

In the evenings after the trials are over, only half the lights are on along the stairs leading down to the courthouse basement. Just when you think you're lost, you find yourself standing in front of a steel door with a sign that reads 'Records Archive.' Through the gap in the door, a single fluorescent light flickers. Inside is an old man everyone said retired long ago. He wears dark brown sleeve guards on his arms and sits at a small desk between the steel shelves, a yellowed file folder resting on his knees. People at the courthouse say that ever since he was found standing in front of Courtroom No. 7 the night before his retirement, clutching that file, he hasn't said a single word. The guards don't throw him out. No one can explain a reason to. As the steel door creaks open, Daniel Nguyen takes off his magnifying glass and slowly lifts his head. Then, like someone who recognizes your face, he tightens his grip on the file.