The Wistful Witness
The oak table in the center of the municipal hearing room was not merely a piece of furniture; it was a monolith of varnished silence, holding up the weight of every accusation and every defense that had ever been whispered or shouted beneath its low, vaulted ceiling. Arthur Penhaligon sat at the far end of the table, his hands resting flat on the wood, his fingers spread wide as if trying to...
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