The Weight of Paper

From Chapter 1

The Ministry of Culture rose from the edge of Wenceslas Square like a slab of frozen grief. Its concrete face caught the November light and gave nothing back—only a flat, grey reflection that made the building seem less built than grown, as though the earth itself had hardened around it overnight.

Vera Novakova stood at the glass doors for a long moment, watching her breath fog the air. Inside, the lobby smelled of wet wool and floor wax, the particular combination that meant the janitor had mopped that morning but the radiators still hadn't warmed. She pulled her scarf tighter and pushed through.

Her office was on the third floor, a narrow room with one window that looked out over the rooftops of the Old Town. The desk was scarred with ink stains and cigarette burns, left by whoever had sat here before her. She kept her satchel—canvas, frayed at the edges, bought secondhand from a market stall near Karlovy Vary—on the chair beside her. Inside it: a thermos of weak coffee, a pot of black ink, and a small notebook where she recorded the day's work. Not for anyone else. Just for herself. A habit from before.

The typewriter on her desk was a Remington, heavy and loud, the kind that sounded like gunfire when you struck the keys. It belonged to the Ministry, not to her, and she treated it with a careful reverence, as though it might turn on her if she pressed too hard.

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