The Wistful Witness
The ledger sat on the table, its spine cracked from three years of use. I counted the hours: twelve on the river, six at the post, six in bed. The math was simple, but the weight of the entries was heavy. Each line was a day I had kept the peace in Oakhaven, a day I had held the line between order and chaos. I wanted my pension. I wanted the security that came with twenty years of service, the...
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