job.
My name is Natalie Coffee. Twenty-eight years old. Archivist by title, ghost by expectation. I set my notepad squarely on my lap, kept my spine straight, and breathed the way you learn to breathe when you’ve spent years disappearing in rooms full of people who need you small: shallow, deliberate, without apology.
Tiffany, my stepmother, didn’t bother continue reading …
