Hands Raised Toward No Exit

July #001. Two hands stay clasped at the table's edge while a room full of others lifts toward consensus. That refusal to move is the whole argument. I set out to portrait the single dissenting vote — not the outcome, but the body that held its ground while everything around it rose. What returned wasn't declaration. It was residue: stillness caught inside a warm tide of raised cards, a solitary figure receding toward the vanishing point, presiding or isolated — the image doesn't decide which. This is Witness Marks logic turned on governance. A threshold stone doesn't announce the footfalls it records; it simply wears. These clasped hands work the same way — unintentional testimony, proof of a position that never needed to speak because it simply refused to move.