Liora entered the court at midday, when the light fell evenly across the floor and cast no shadows.
The hall was circular, its walls lined with benches that curved without corners. At the centre stood no judge’s seat, only a low platform where cases were presented and resolved. The atmosphere was calm—studious rather than solemn.
A clerk greeted her.
“You’re welcome to observe,” he said. “All proceedings are public. All outcomes are sound.”
The first case was brief.
Two neighbours disputed the boundary between their gardens. Documents were produced. Measurements confirmed. Precedents consulted. The verdict followed immediately.
Both parties nodded. The decision was correct. Everyone could see that it was.
The second case concerned a contract. The wording was precise, the obligations clear. The ruling followed from the terms without friction.
Again, no dissent.
Liora felt a quiet admiration. This was a court without drama.
As the day continued, the cases grew more complex.
A question of responsibility where intentions diverged. A dispute over authorship where collaboration blurred ownership. A conflict involving promises made under changing circumstances.
Each time, the court proceeded with care. Relevant distinctions were drawn. Definitions refined. The reasoning was meticulous, the conclusions unavoidable.
Each verdict was correct.
During a pause, Liora leaned toward the clerk.
“Has a verdict here ever been overturned?” she asked.
“Never,” he replied. “There has never been an error.”
“And yet,” Liora said slowly, “some faces look heavier than others.”
The clerk smiled politely. “Correctness is not lightness.”
In the afternoon, a case was brought that drew a larger crowd.
A woman stood accused of neglect. Evidence showed she had failed to meet a clearly defined obligation. The rules were unambiguous. The reasoning proceeded cleanly.
The verdict was delivered.
Correct.
The woman accepted it without protest. So did the crowd. And yet, as she turned to leave, something in the room tightened—not in objection, but in quiet unease.
Liora watched closely.
No one challenged the ruling. No appeal was filed. Nothing had gone wrong.
Still, the air had changed.
“Why does this feel unfinished?” Liora asked.
The clerk considered this. “Because you are looking for something we do not adjudicate.”
“What is that?”
He gestured around the hall. “We determine what follows from what. We do not determine what should have mattered.”
They walked together along the outer curve of the court.
“Every verdict here is correct,” the clerk continued. “Each follows rigorously from the rules and the facts as established. That is our jurisdiction.”
“And outside it?” Liora asked.
The clerk paused. “Outside it, relation continues.”
As the court adjourned, the cases were cleared away. The platform stood empty once more.
Nothing lingered—no mistakes, no contradictions, no unresolved arguments.
Yet as Liora stepped back into the street, she felt the unmistakable presence of something unaddressed.
Not injustice.
Not error.
But remainder.
The court had done everything it was designed to do.
And precisely in that success, Liora saw its limit.
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