The Distant Summer
The ledger page was missing, which meant I had to count the remaining forty-three sheets by hand, my fingers tracing the jagged edges where the fire had taken them, the ash still smelling of wet charcoal and old paper, a scent that had settled into the weave of my wool coat so deeply I could no longer wash it out. It was November, 1924, and the university archive was cold, a damp chill that...
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