The Wistful Witness
The leather satchel hung heavy against Elias Thorne’s hip, a weight that seemed to pull him down into the floor of the hearing room, where the air was stale with the scent of old wood and the sharp, metallic tang of anxiety. He was fifty-two years old, a man who had spent the last three decades organizing other people’s histories in the quiet dust of the municipal library, and now he stood...
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