The Distant Summer
The pencil snapped against the ledger, the sharp crack echoing in the silence of the basement, and I stared at the broken graphite tip as if it were a bone. I was thirty-two years old, a junior archivist with twelve years of service, and my hands were shaking so badly that I could barely grip the remaining stub. Above me, through the floorboards and the dirt and the roots, the family oak in the...
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