The Wistful Petal
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, bearing the seal of the High Court and the weight of a finality I had spent three years trying to escape. It was not a pardon, nor a reprieve, but a citation. The state of New York, in its infinite bureaucratic wisdom, had deemed that my silence was no longer merely an omission, but an indictment. I was to be tried for the murder of a man who had not been...
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