**A Strange and Surreal Dream**
The courtroom hummed with a muted murmur, like the distant buzzing of bees. Arthur stood, his voice steady but soft. “Your Honour, I withdraw my financial claim against the defendant.” A ripple of confusion spread through the gallery.
The judge, a woman weathered by years of legal battles, arched a brow. “Mr. Whitmore, you understand this decision wont alter the verdict but forfeits your right to compensation?”
“I do.”
Eleanordespite her youth, the court stenographer was always addressed formallycontinued typing without pause. Five years in this place had numbed her to the endless parade of human folly. She saw herself as a train conductor, shuttling carriages of other peoples tragedies.
The case against Lydia H. was the sort the tabloids adored. A con artist, weaving elaborate lies to extract money from lonely men on dating sites. Four victims, none of whom had met her in person, had sent substantial sums. One believed her family had been in a car crash; another, that her ex-husband was taking everything down to the teaspoons; a third, something about a sick child
*Whats new?* Eleanor thought, shuffling the files. Four grown men, seemingly successful, had cast themselves as knights in shining armour, convinced money could buy them love. In reality, theyd been messaging a married mother of three.
Now they were all herethe accused, the victims. Three of them sat coiled in bitterness, demanding restitution, their words laced with venom. They were right, of course. The law was on their side. Eleanors fingers moved mechanically: *emotional distress, fraudulent misrepresentation, pecuniary motive.*
Arthur Whitmore sat apart, his posture devoid of anger or pity. When he renounced his claim, the room stilled. One of the men spun around, incredulous. “Have you lost your mind? She played you for a fool! That money probably bought her husband a new phone!”
Arthur regarded him with an odd, quiet sadness. “I know. But she has three children. Let the money go to them. I dont need it back.”
Eleanor looked up, startled. Generosity was a rare sight in these walls. She studied his handsa welders hands, resting calmly on his kneesand his eyes, weary but unclouded by spite. In a world where everyone clutched at scraps, he had simply let go.
After the hearing, a defence lawyer shook his head. “That fourth ones a proper romantic. Naïve as a lamb.”
Eleanor, who rarely spoke unprompted, countered, “Its not naivety. Its strength. The kind no amount of money can buy.”
The room fell silent. Even she was surprised by her own words.
In the days that followed, she caught herself watching himhow he listened without interrupting, how his gaze lingered on the courtroom windows as if searching the grey sky for answers only he cared to ask.
On the final day, as the verdict was read and the crowd dispersed, Arthur lingered in the corridor, disoriented. Eleanor stepped out.
“Which way are you headed?” she asked, her tone clipped.
“Nowhere in particular,” he said with a faint smile. “Got a bit turned around in your maze.”
“Exits that way.” She nodded.
“Thanks.”
He took a few steps before she called after him. “Arthur?”
He turned, eyebrows raised.
“You were right,” she said, her voice wavering. “About the children. It was decent of you.”
Arthur studied her. “You know, Eleanor” He hesitated, unsure how to address her.
“Ellie,” she offered.
“Ellie. Kindness is rare enough anywhere. Thank you for noticing.”
He left. She watched him go, feeling something long dormant stir in her chest.
What came next? Rain. A deluge, as if the heavens had timed it to the second Arthur stepped outside. He paused under the awning, debating whether to make a dash for the bus stop.
A voice spoke behind him. “Weve a court-issue umbrella. Meant for documents, but I suppose itll do for a decent man.”
Ellie stood there, holding a black umbrella, her expression betraying a flicker of uncertainty.
“I dont want to keep you,” Arthur said.
“My shifts over. Im walking to the park. If youre going that way”
They walked side by side beneath the umbrella, careful not to brush shoulders. The silence was oddly comfortable.
“You always this protective of victims?” Arthur finally asked.
“No. Never,” Ellie admitted. “Youre the first who acted against logic. It startled me.”
“Probably daft of me.”
“Its rare. And rarity has value.”
They reached the park. The rain had softened to a drizzle.
“Fancy a stroll?” Arthur asked. “If youve time.”
Ellie hesitated only a moment. *Protocol breached, Eleanor,* she thought, but nodded. Arthur gazed at the clearing sky, and she let the quiet stretch.
“First time this has happened,” he said abruptly, clearly not referring to the scam. “People usually think Im odd.”
“Because you didnt turn bitter,” Ellie murmured. “These days, thats practically eccentric.”
Arthur met her eyes. “And you? Do you think Im eccentric?”
“I think youre real. Thats worth something. In my line of work, real is in short supply.”
He was silent, then asked, “Want to know why Im so real? Why I fell for it?”
Ellie nodded.
Arthur exhaled, his gaze turning distant. Then he spoke, calm and measured, as if recounting someone elses life.
“It began and ended at school. Her name was Lily. What I felt for her wasnt just loveshe was everything. Light, beauty, the unattainable. We were *that* couple, the one everyone admired. I carried her books, we danced at prom I was certain it was forever. So sure, I think I convinced everyone else too. We were the golden pair.”
“Then she left. Just stepped into her new life. Prestigious uni, married a classmate. Sent me a postcard. Can you believe it? Not a letter, not a call. Just a postcard of London. Three words: *Sorry. Its better.*”
“Everything crumbled. I didnt drink, didnt rage. Just went numb. Became a weldergood job for hiding behind a mask, drowning thoughts in noise. Built a fortress around my heart, but inside, that daft boy still believed in one great love.”
“Then I saw *her* photo online. The con artist. Looked so much like Lily. But it was the caption: *Still believe in love.* Pathetic, right? I messaged her. And she wrote back all the things Id waited years to hearforever, loyalty, something real. It was the key to my own lock. I wanted the fairy tale so badly, I ignored the red flags. I didnt fall for *her* lies. I fell for the echo of my own dream. I didnt need *her*. I needed proof that lovethe kind Id believed inwasnt a joke.”
“Funny thing? The trial didnt punish me. It freed me. At first, I was furious, then ashamed. But seeing her in courtjust a scared, pitiful womanshattered the illusion. Lilys ghost finally let go. That money? Payment for an exorcism. Pricey, but effective.”
He fell silent, waiting for her verdicta condemnation of his foolishness. Instead, Ellie reached over and covered his hand with hers. Warm. Steady.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said softly. “Now I understand. Youre not eccentric. Youre true to yourself.”
***
Ellie wasnt called “Miss Hartley” at work for nothing. Stern, silent, ruthlessly efficientshe was all duty, no personal life. When colleagues spotted her with Arthur once, then twice, whispers began.
Judge Margaret Hayes, a woman whose glare could halt a criminal mid-stride, broke the silence first. “Well. Never thought Id see the day. Figured Ellie had a filing cabinet where her heart should be. Now shes courting a defendant with the conscience of a saint.”
Her colleague, Judge Ian Reeves, smirked. “With his naivety, hes more perpetually victimised than romantic. Ellies taken on a reclamation project, has she?”
“Dont be crass,” Margaret chided, though her lips twitched. “Mans a hard worker, skilled hands. And what he did uncommon. Principles over pounds.”
In the break room, barrister Simon chuckled. “Never thought Id witness a courtroom love story. Bloody telenovela, this.”
Ellie *had* changed. No less professional, but softer. Sometimes she smiled at her phone. A delicate silver chain appeared around her neck.
The staff divided into cynics and romantics.
The men joked darkly: “Better prep for a wedding invite. Well be witnessesYes, Your Honour, I saw the defendant steal the stenographers heart.”
The women sighed: “Its *beautiful*. Ellie, so stern, so untouchable. And himwounded but kind. And handsome. Its like a novel!”
Accounts manager Valerie huffed. “Envys ugly. Most of us forgot what sincerity looks like. A man with a good hearts rarer than hens teeth. Ellies clever. Let her have this.”
One morning, Ian couldnt resist. “Miss Hartley, hows your noble saviour? Filed any more lawsuits out of the goodness of his heart?”
The room held its breath.
Ellie sipped her tea, set it down, and fixed him with a clear stare. “Judge Reeves, if youre so interested in closed-case victims, I can grant full archive access. Fancy revisiting Case 3-452/18? Or 2-187/19? Plenty of *colourful* characters there.”
Dead silence. Ian coughed. He knewEllie had transcribed his cases too. Knew things hed rather forget.
“No, no, Ellie! Just making conversation.”
“How kind.” Her voice was honey-sweet. “But my private life isnt up for judicial review. Yet.”
The teasing stopped. Replaced by wary respect. The final blow came the morning Arthur dropped her off in his modest but tidy car. He stepped out to adjust her coat collara small gesture, so tender it silenced the last doubters.
That day, Margaret pulled her aside. “Ellie. Hes good. It shows. Hold onto him.”
The only verdict Ellie ever accepted without protest. She just nodded.
“Thank you, Margaret. I know.”
The gossip faded. The staff understood: their unflappable stenographer, keeper of order and records, had passed her own sentence*Pardoned. To love. To be happy.*
And it was final. No appeals.
