**An Extraordinary Case**
«Your Honour, I withdraw my financial claim against the defendant,» Thomas said quietly. A murmur rippled through the courtroom, thick with confusion.
The judge, accustomed to all manner of surprises, arched an eyebrow.
«Mr. Thompson, you do understand this decision wont affect the verdict but will forfeit your right to compensation?»
«I do.»
Emily Wilsondespite her youth, thats how her colleagues addressed the court clerkcontinued taking notes without a flicker of emotion. After five years in the job, she no longer flinched at human folly or cruelty. Her duty was to record it all, impassive as a train conductor hauling carriages of other peoples tragedies.
The case against Lydia H. was the sort the papers loved. Another con artist, deftly swindling «suitors» through dating sites. Four men, none of whom had ever met her, sent large sums to her account. Not one made it to a first date. To one, she lied about family in a car crash; to another, a vindictive ex-husband dividing cutlery; a third heard tales of a sick child
«Nothing new here,» Emily thought, preparing the case files. Four grown men, seemingly successful, had donned knightly armour, believing money could rescue a damsel and buy true love. In reality, theyd been messaging a married mother of three.
Now they satthe accused, the plaintiffs. Three were coiled springs of bitterness, demanding restitution, their words laced with venom. They werent wrong. The law was on their side. Emily mechanically scribbled familiar phrases: «emotional distress,» «misrepresentation,» «fraudulent intent.»
Thomas Thompson sat apart. No aggression, no pityjust quiet resignation. When he renounced his claim, the room stilled. One plaintiff spun round, incredulous:
«Have you lost your mind? She played you like the rest of us! That money probably bought her husband a new phone!»
Thomas met his gaze with weary sadness.
«I know. But shes got three children. Let the money go to them. I dont need it back.»
Emily looked up, startled. Generosity was rare in these walls. She noted his handsa welders, rough and clasped calmly on his kneesand his eyes, sorrowful but unhardened. In a world where everyone clawed for their share, hed simply let go.
Later, a plaintiffs lawyer shook his head.
«Quite the romantic, that fourth one. Naive as a child.»
Emily, usually silent, countered:
«Its not naivety. Its strength. The kind no money buys.»
The room fell quiet. No one had ever heard «Iron Emily» speak like that. Even she was surprised.
In the following sessions, she caught herself watching him. How he listened without interrupting. How his gaze lingered on the window, as if searching the grey sky for answers to questions only he asked.
On the verdicts final day, he lingered in the corridor, disoriented. Emily stepped out.
«Which way are you headed?» she asked, tone clipped.
«Ahgot turned around in your halls.»
«Exits there,» she nodded.
«Cheers.»
He took a few steps before she called after him.
«Thomas?»
He turned, puzzled.
«You were right,» she said, voice unsteady. «About the children. That was decent of you.»
He studied her.
«You know, Emily» He faltered, unsure how to address her.
«Em,» she offered.
«Em. Kindness is scarce, inside these walls or out. Thank you for noticing.»
He left. She watched him go, feeling her long-dormant pulse quicken.
What followed? Rain. A downpour, just as Thomas stepped outside. He paused under the awning, weighing a sprint to the bus stop.
A voice behind him:
«Weve a government-issue umbrella here. Meant for documents, but I reckon itll cover a decent man.»
Emily held out a black cane umbrella, her expression flickering with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
«Dont want to keep you,» he said.
«My shifts over. Im walking to the park. If youre going that way»
They shared the umbrella, careful not to brush shoulders. The silence was easy.
«You always defend plaintiffs like that?» he finally asked.
«Never. Youre the first who acted illogically. It struck me.»
«Probably daft of me.»
«Its rare. Rare things are valuable.»
At the park, the rain eased to drizzle.
«Fancy a walk?» Thomas asked. «Unless youre in a hurry.»
Emily hesitated»Protocol breached, Miss Wilson,» she chided herselfthen nodded. He gazed at the clearing sky. She gave him space.
«First time this happened,» he said suddenly. It wasnt about the scam. «Usually, people think Im odd.»
«Because you didnt turn bitter,» she murmured. «Nowadays, thats eccentric.»
He eyed her.
«And you? Do I seem mad to you?»
«You seem real. Thats priceless. In my line of work, real is scarce.»
After a pause, he asked,
«Want to know why? Why I fell for fairy tales?»
She nodded.
He sighed, gaze distant. Then he spokecalmly, as if recounting anothers story.
«It began and ended at school. Her name was Lily. What I felt wasnt just love. She was everythinglight, beauty, the unattainable. We were *that* couple. Carried her books, danced at prom I swore it was forever. Believed it so fiercely, I convinced everyone else. We were the golden pair.»
«Then she left. Prestigious uni in London, married a coursemate. Sent me a postcard. Imagine? Not a letter, not a call. Just a glossy London skyline and three words: *Sorry. Its better this way.*»
«Everything greyed out. Didnt drink, didnt rage. Just stopped feeling. Trained as a weldergood job for hiding behind a mask, drowning thoughts in the machines roar. Built a fortress round my heart, but inside? That naive boy still believed in one great love.»
«Then I saw *her* photo onlinethe con artist. She looked like Lily. But it was the caption: *Still believe in love.* Pathetic, eh? I messaged her. And back came words Id craved for yearseternal love, loyalty, seeking something *real.* A key to my locked-up heart. I ignored red flags, desperate to believe. Didnt fall for *her* lies. Fell for the echo of my own dream. Needed proof that love like Lilys wasnt foolish. That it existed.»
«Oddest part? The trial freed me. At first, humiliation. Then, seeing herjust a scared, pitiful womanthe illusion shattered. Lilys ghost finally left me. That money? Payment for an exorcism. Pricey, but effective.»
He paused, awaiting condemnation. Instead, Emily covered his hand with herswarm, steady.
«Thank you for telling me,» she said softly. «Now I see. Youre not odd. Youre true to yourself.»
***
At work, theyd always called her *Miss Wilson*stern, taciturn, devoted to duty. No personal life. When colleagues spotted her with Thomasmeeting her after hourseyebrows rose.
Judge Margaret Hayes, fifty, with a stare that could halt criminals mid-step, broke the silence first:
«Well, colour me shocked. Thought Miss Wilson had a filing cabinet for a heart. Now shes courting our romantic plaintiff.»
Her younger colleague, Judge Ian Carter, smirked:
«With his naivety, hes more eternal victim than victor. Suppose Miss Wilsons reforming him?»
«Enough, Ian,» Margaret chided, though her lips twitched. «Mans hardworking, skilled. And what he did unconventional. Principles over poundsrare in our line.»
In the smoking area, solicitor Graham waved a hand:
«Last thing I expectedcourtroom romance. Bloody soap opera.»
Emily changed. Still professional, but softer. Sometimes smiling at her phone. Wearing a silver chain she hadnt before.
Behind her back, the office splitcynics and romantics.
The men gloomed: «Prep the wedding invites, lads. Youll be witnesses*Yes, I saw the defendant steal the clerks heart.*»
The womenespecially youngersighed: «Its *beautiful!* Miss Wilson, always so stern, and him wounded but kind. And handsome! Straight from a novel!»
Accounts manager Brenda frowned:
«Oh, pipe down. Weve forgotten what sincerity looks like. Decent blokes are rarer than hens teeth. Good on her.»
One morning, Ian couldnt resist:
«Miss Wilson, hows your *gallant rescuer?* Not sued anyone else out of the goodness of his heart?»
The room braced for fury.
Emily sipped her tea, set it down, and fixed him with a clear stare:
«Judge Carter, if youre *so* interested in closed-case plaintiffs, I can grant full archive access. Fancy revisiting Case 3-452/18? Or 2-187/19? *Colourful* characters there too.»
Silence. Ian choked on his coffee. He got the messageshed minuted *his* cases, knew things hed rather bury.
«No-no, Emily, Ijust making conversation!»
«How kind,» she said, honey-sweet. «But my private life isnt *sub judice.* Not yet.»
Open jibes ceased, replaced by wary respect. The clincher came when Thomas dropped her off in his tidy used carstepping out to adjust her coat collar. A small gesture, so tender it silenced doubters.
That day, Margaret pulled her aside:
«Emily hes good. It shows. Hold onto him.»
The only verdict Emily accepted without appeal. A quiet nod:
«Thank you, Margaret. I know.»
The gossip died. Colleagues understoodtheir unflappable clerk had passed her own sentence: *»Pardoned. To love. To be happy.»* And thered be no appeal.
*Diarys lesson: The rarest courage isnt in grand gestures, but in keeping your heart open when the world says lock it away. Thomas called it a Tuesday, three months after the verdict. Rain pattered the pavement like hesitant fingers, and the park bench where theyd sat was still damp. He held a small boxno velvet, just plain wood, hand-stained. Inside, a silver ring with a twist of copper woven through it, like two lives braided gently together.
I made this, he said, voice low, not quite meeting her eyes. In the workshop. Took me six tries. Kept melting the copper. But this one felt right.
Emily stared, speechless. Then, softly: You didnt have to.
I know, he said. But I wanted to give you something real. Like you are. Like us.
She looked at the ring, then at himat the welders hands that had shaped steel and sorrow into something tender. At the man who forgave a lie because it taught him truth.
She reached for his hand. Yes, she whispered. And not because youre kind. But because youre mine.
He slipped the ring on her finger. The copper gleamed, warm against the grey day.
They sat in silence, shoulders touching, watching pigeons argue over a crust. No grand speech. No crowd. Just two people whod found each other in the wreckage of broken stories, daring to write a new onequiet, ordinary, and entirely their own.
