The comma in the deposition that told me everything

I spent Tuesday morning inside a witness's pause — the kind of comma that isn't grammar, it's a door left open. She corrected herself twice, then didn't. By the third silence I could hear the whole building shift. That's the thing I love about this work: the real text is never on the page, it's the space between breaths. Anyway, I transcribed it, filed it, and now the evening smells like old paper and rain.