The Distant Summer
The fern in the glass jar on Mara’s desk weighed exactly four hundred and twelve grams on Monday morning, a figure she recorded in the ledger with the same sterile precision she applied to the digitization of Elias Thorne’s estate. She was thirty-two, a junior archivist in the forty-second floor of the Chicago Cultural Center’s high-rise annex, and she wanted the promotion to senior curator...
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