MIRA

I never imagine that I’ll be back in the world of dusty archives and forgotten records, but there I am standing in a freezing, underground storage facility with a security badge clipped to my coat and the weight of my father’s ghost pressing against my ribs. At least the library in the mansion feels warm, unlike here.

The fluorescent lights flicker, and rows of metal shelves stretch endlessly like skeletal corridors. The air smells of old paper, rust, and secrets that have refused to ...