The air in the office smelled of damp wool and old paper. I held the sprig of rosemary. It was green. It was alive.

"Is that for the desk?" asked Martha.

Martha sat across from me. Her pen hovered over a form.

"Yes," I said. "For the desk."

Martha looked at the rosemary. She looked at my face.

"You look tired, Clara."

"I am fine."

I placed the rosemary in the vase. The vase was blue. It had a chip in the rim. The water was clear.

Martha sighed. She pulled the chair closer.

"Clara, the Director is waiting."

"I know."

"He is not a patient man."

"He is a busy man."

Martha shook her head. She tapped the form.

"The numbers are wrong again."

"The numbers are correct."

"Are they?"

"Yes."

"Then why is he angry?"

"He is angry at the system."

Martha laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves scraping on pavement.

"Clara, you are the system."

I touched the rosemary. The leaves were soft. They smelled of the garden.

"I am just the clerk."

"You are the keeper," Martha said. "You keep the records. You keep the keys. You keep the silence."

I looked at the window. The rain fell in sheets. The sky was gray. It was the color of ash.

"I have to go," I said.

"Go," Martha said.

I stood up. My legs felt heavy. I walked to the door. I opened it. The hallway was long. The carpet was red. It was worn thin in the middle.

I walked to the Director’s office. The door was oak. It was dark. I knocked.

"Enter," said a voice.

It was deep. It was low. It sounded like stone.

I entered. The room was dim. The lights were low. The Director sat behind the desk. He did not look up.

"Clara," he said.

"Director."

"Close the door."

I closed the door. The latch clicked. It was a small sound. It was loud.

"Sit down."

I sat. The chair was leather. It was cold.

"Do you know why you are here?"

"Yes."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me."

I looked at the rosemary. It was still in my hand. I had not left it at my desk. I had brought it with me.

"I am here because I am tired," I said.

The Director looked up. His eyes were blue. They were cold.

"Tired is not a reason, Clara."

"It is the only reason I have."

He leaned back. He folded his hands.

"Let us speak of the garden."

The garden. The office garden. It was a small thing. It was on the roof. No one went there. It was dead.

"I do not go to the garden," I said.

"You are the keeper of the garden," he said.

"I am the keeper of the records."

"Same thing."

I shook my head.

"The garden is dead, Director."

"Is it?"

"Yes. The vines are dry. The soil is hard. Nothing grows."

He smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes.

"Then plant something."

"I do not have seeds."

"You have yourself."

I did not understand. I waited. He did not say more.

"The rosemary," he said.

I looked at the sprig in my hand.

"Where did you get it?"

"I bought it."

"From where?"

"A market."

"A market does not sell magic, Clara."

"It is not magic."

"Then what is it?"

"It is a plant."

"It is a memory."

I stared at him. The room felt smaller. The air felt thicker.

"I do not understand," I said.

"You do not need to understand. You need to feel."

I felt a chill. It started in my bones. It moved to my skin.

"The garden," he said. "It is not a place. It is a state of mind."

"I am a clerk," I said.

"You are a vessel," he said.

I looked at the rosemary. The green was bright. It was too bright. It looked like a wound in the gray air.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"I want you to let go."

"Let go of what?"

"Of the need to be right."

"I am right."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you hold the rosemary so tightly?"

I looked at my hand. I was gripping it. The leaves were bruised. They were turning black.

I opened my hand. The sprig fell. It hit the floor. It broke.

I watched the pieces. They lay there. They were small. They were still green.

"Get up," the Director said.

I stood up. My knees shook.

"Go to the garden."

"I will not go."

"You must."

"I am a clerk."

"You are a woman," he said. "You are a woman who is holding on too tight."

I looked at him. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I did neither. I felt empty. I felt hollow.

I walked out. I did not look back.

The hallway was empty. The red carpet was still there. It looked like blood. I walked faster. My heart beat in my chest. It was a drum. It was loud.

I reached the stairs. I went up. One step. Two steps. Three. The air got colder. The wind blew. It smelled of rain.

I reached the roof. The door was locked. I had the key. I opened it. The wind hit me. It was strong. It pushed me back.

I stepped out. The sky was open. It was vast. It was gray.

The garden was there. It was a square of dirt. It was surrounded by a low wall. The wall was cracked.

I walked to the center. The soil was hard. It was dry. It was dead.

I looked around. There were no other plants. There were no flowers. There was only dust.

I looked down at my feet. I saw the shadow of the Director. It was long. It was dark. It reached out to me.

I felt a presence. It was not a person. It was a feeling. It was in the air. It was in the ground.

I thought of the rosemary. I thought of the office. I thought of Martha. I thought of the forms.

I was tired. I was so tired.

I knelt down. I put my hands in the dirt. It was cold. It was hard.

I tried to dig. I could not. The soil was too hard.

I stopped. I sat back on my heels.

I looked at the sky. A bird flew past. It was small. It was black. It was fast.

It disappeared.

I felt a tear fall. It was hot. It was wet.

I looked at my hands. They were dirty. They were red.

I stood up. My legs were weak. I swayed.

I looked at the wall. There was a gap. A small gap. It was in the corner.

I walked to it. I put my hand through. The wind blew through my fingers.

I felt the city. I heard the cars. I heard the voices. I heard the life.

It was far away. It was close.

I was here. I was in the dead garden.

I was the keeper.

I was the vessel.

I was the rosemary.

I realized it then. I had been holding on. I had been holding on to the job. To the title. To the safety. To the rightness.

I was holding on to a dead thing.

I let go.

I dropped my hands. I fell to my knees. I did not care.

The wind blew harder. It tore at my clothes. It tore at my hair.

I felt free. I felt light.

I was no longer the clerk. I was no longer the keeper.

I was just a woman. I was just a body. I was just breath.

The rain started. It fell in drops. Then in streams. It hit the dry earth. It made a sound. It was a small sound. It was the sound of life.

I closed my eyes. I felt the water. It was cold. It was clean.

I opened my eyes. The sky was clearing. A ray of light broke through. It hit the dirt. It was gold.

I saw the shadow of the Director. It was gone.

I saw my own shadow. It was small. It was mine.

I stood up. I wiped my face. I was clean.

I walked to the door. I opened it. I went down the stairs.

The office was quiet. The phones were silent. The papers were still.

Martha was at her desk. She was looking at me.

"Clara," she said.

"Yes."

"You are wet."

"Yes."

"Did you go to the roof?"

"Yes."

"What did you find?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

Martha looked at me. She looked at my hands. They were dry now. They were clean.

"Are you coming back?" she asked.

I looked at the clock. It was late. The sun was setting. The light was orange.

"No," I said.

"Clara?"

"I am going home."

I walked to the door. I opened it. The hallway was empty.

I walked out. I walked to the street. The rain had stopped. The air was fresh.

I walked to the park. It was quiet. The trees were wet. The leaves were dark.

I sat on a bench. I looked at the sky. It was blue. It was clear.

I felt a pain in my chest. It was sharp. It was real.

I was free. I was alone. I was free.

I thought of the rosemary. It was on the floor. It was broken. It was dead.

I was alive.

I stood up. I walked away. I did not look back.

The city was loud. The city was alive. I was part of it. I was not the keeper. I was just a part.

I was small. I was human.

I was free.

The sun set. The lights came on. The world turned.

I turned with it.

I was gone. I was here.

I was free.