The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-22 08:49:25 -

14th of October. The fog in Oakhaven does not lift; it settles. It is a grey wool that chokes the lungs and blurs the line between the street and the sky. I am forty-two years old, a constable of twenty years’ service, and I want the Sheriff’s chair. It is a quiet want, the kind that lives in the bone, a desire for the pension that would secure my widow’s future if I were to die on duty. Mayor...

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