Salem Scapegoat's Trial: Witnessing the Weight

Why We Wrote This

You’re making your way through the graveyard.

The stones are old. Some split. Some sinking.
Names you’ve heard in whispers, but never said out loud.

A cloud moves across the sun. The grass is wet in places that shouldn’t hold water.

You didn’t come here for flowers.
You came to find the scene.
To study the layout.
To trace the silence back to where it started.

This is not mourning. This is forensic reckoning.

Your nervous system remembers what your family said it imagined.
Your gut knows which hallway held the tension.
Your body leans slightly left to avoid the stone it was never allowed to name.

And then you see it.
The pattern. The ritual. The altar dressed as a courtroom.
You were not judged. You were used.

They passed the weight so they wouldn’t have to feel it.
They named you difficult to stay comfortable.
They made you dangerous so they could stay small.

You’re not here to fight them.
You’re here to discharge the hold.

You walk the field. Name the names.
Look straight into the places where your voice cracked and say:
“I see you now. I’m done carrying this.”

There’s a storm a few miles out. Not yours to chase.
You square your shoulders.

This is not your trial anymore. This is your release.

You are not the scapegoat.
You’re the sleuth.
The architect of freedom. The one who left a light on in the past so the future could find its way back.

The house is still haunted.
But you?
You walk free.