The Typist

L.W. Hewitt

“There it is,” Talia said as she shoved aside some old suitcases. The box seemed heavier than last time. Some of the papers had been damaged, the ink smeared. Her father had painstakingly pulled everything out he could salvage, and left them to dry. Patience had been written on the pages - or more precisely, typed - the words scribed in the eternal fabric of outrage, fear, shame, and subjugation. They lay waiting for her. For today.

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