The Wistful Witness
The ledger weighed four pounds, three ounces, and a lifetime of silence. I held it against the laminate desk in the sub-basement of the Federal Records Center, feeling the gritty, splintered edge of the binding press into the palm of my hand, a texture that felt more real than the sterile air conditioning that hummed above us. I had spent twenty years in this building, counting hours of...
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