The air in the warehouse-sized storage unit was frigid and smelled of dust and slow decay. Endless rows of metal shelving held the sedimentary layers of academic lives: boxes of slides, dissertations bound in cracked leather, obsolete scientific instruments.
Stella stood before Bay 17, Shelf 4. The label, in her mother’s flawless hand, read: Shen, M. - Iceland Fieldwork (1990-2015). The date range was a lie. Her father’s last trip was three years ago. This was a curated collection.
The university archivist, a perpetually flustered young man named Nigel, hovered behind her. “Your mother’s instructions were very specific. You may consult, but nothing is to be removed without written authorization from her or the estate’s executor.”
“I understand,” Stella said, offering a smile that felt l
