The Keeper will tell you what happened. I'll tell you what's coming.
There is a particular kind of certainty that lives only in the dark, before the light gets to it. You carry it home. You carry it into the kitchen and set it down on the counter and it feels solid — it feels like something you could build a case on. The feeling of being wronged is almost indistinguishable from the evidence that you were. Almost.
Scotland supporters are inside that interval right now and I know what it feels like because I have been there too, in smaller rooms, over smaller things. The aggrievement arrives complete. It doesn't wait for confirmation. It arrives with its own grammar, its own velocity, and for a little while it is the truest thing in the room.
The danger isn't the grievance. Grievance is honest. The danger is that we stop being able to tell the difference between a wound that was inflicted and a wound that was always ours to carry — and that we file the feeling somewhere permanent before the light has finished reaching it.
The review is open. The decisions are not yet settled into the record. This is the moment to hold the feeling loosely — not to abandon it, not to dismiss it, but to let it remain a question a little longer.
When the answer comes, we will know what we are working with. Until then, we are only working with ourselves.