Chapter 64 · for subscribers
Fifty-seven blank columns and one date in ink. I had spent four months believing that the people who had decided things about me had done it carelessly, in a hurry, somewhere else — and here was the handwriting of a woman I had eaten eleven years of breakfasts with, put down in a book in a shop she had no business in, three days before anybody told me my own name.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.