The Distant Summer
The train cut through the grey afternoon like a blade through wet wool. Margaret sat by the window, her hands folded in her lap. They were steady. They had to be. She was the Chief Archivist of the St. Jude’s Institution for the Preservation of Memory, a role that had once felt like a crown. Now it felt like a shackle. The institution was a vast, glass-and-steel complex in the heart of the...
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