Ledgers were in the archive. Third floor, climate-controlled.

1823-1847. Names, ages, values.

Unborn children listed as collateral.

Twelve plantations. The university’s original endowment.

She ran the numbers. 174 years of compound interest.

Her library. Her chair. Her scholarship.

All built on bones.

She wrote another research paper.

“Fascinating historical work.”

“Publishing takes time.”

She taught undergrads in the afternoon. Economics 101. Wealth grows over time.

Students take notes.

Sitting inside the story.

She walks the quad at night sometimes. Beautiful buildings. Prosperity.

In the old library, sounds. Breathing in the stacks.

The archivist said the building settled.

She knew better.

“Any questions?” she asks her students.

The room was silent.

But underneath—breathing.

Small as children. Persistent. Waiting. Underneath everything.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​