The Weight of Paper Dust

Leah ran a thumb along the spine of the 'Council on Administrative Redundancy: Post-War Civil Structures' binder, a thin line of grime clinging to her skin. It was dry, almost powdery. These weren’t the glamorous state secrets of a spy novel, just the bureaucratic minutiae of government functions, endless reports on efficiency, streamlining, and structural resilience. Her mandate, a self-assigned one, was to track the rhetorical evolution of 'temporary emergencies' into 'stability protocols' over the past forty years. It was less about what was said, more about how it was said, the subtle shifts in language that had slowly, inexorably, led to the current perpetual caretaker government. Elections suspended. Forever, it felt like.

She adjusted her glasses, the plastic frames pinching slightly behind her ears. The fluorescent hum of the archival room was a constant, low thrum, occasionally punctuated by the distant clatter of a librarian’s cart. She preferred the quiet hum to the sharper, more immediate sounds of her cubicle at the Ministry of Inter-Provincial Liaison, where every keystroke felt scrutinized. Here, among the forgotten, she felt a strange, almost illicit freedom.

Paragraph after paragraph of dense, anodyne prose. Proposals for 'enhanced governmental oversight,' 'interim legislative measures,' 'proactive stability indices.' It was all so blandly sensible, so utterly devoid of any overt malice, yet the cumulative effect was suffocating. She found herself scanning for anomalies, a phrase that felt too specific, a recommendation that seemed to overreach. Her finger paused on a footnote in a draft memo from 1987, tucked away on page 112 of a document otherwise concerned with optimizing paper clip procurement.

A Curious Margin Note

The footnote, scrawled in a tight, precise hand, referred to an external working group. 'See Appendix C: Task Force on Constitutional Resiliency – Preliminary Findings (Harris, W.J.)'. The letters blurred for a second, then snapped into focus. W. J. Harris. William. Her grandfather. A cold, tiny pinprick sensation started just behind her sternum, then spread like frost. She blinked. It had to be a coincidence. Harris was a common enough name. But William J. Harris? Her grandfather, the quiet, meticulous man who had always smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and old books, who had worked in the civil service his entire life, barely speaking of it beyond vague platitudes of 'serving the public good.'

He’d died ten years ago, leaving her his collection of first-edition Canadian literature and a strangely pristine set of fountain pens. Never a mention of task forces on 'constitutional resiliency.' She gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. The old paper crackled softly under her touch.

She pulled out her phone, resisting the urge to call someone. Anyone. What would she even say? 'Hey, I think my dead grandfather might have helped dismantle Canadian democracy, you up for coffee?' Instead, she texted Edgar, her colleague from the Ministry, a short, clipped message: 'Got a minute? Need a second opinion on something obscure. Archives. Library 3.'

Edgar arrived twenty minutes later, looking rumpled, as usual, his tie askew. He carried a half-eaten bagel, crumbs clinging to his beard. 'Leah. What is it? You sound… intense.' He lowered his voice, glancing around the cavernous room. 'Something about the archives always makes people whisper.'

'It’s this,' she pushed the binder across the table, pointing to the footnote. 'W. J. Harris. Does that ring a bell for you? Department of Constitutional Affairs, late 80s?'

Edgar leaned in, squinting at the page. He chewed slowly, then swallowed. 'Harris… Harris… Vaguely. I think there was a Harris in Intergovernmental Relations, maybe? Pretty high up, if I recall. Before my time, though.' He looked at her, then back at the name. 'Why? Something specific?'

She hesitated, a thousand thoughts tangling in her head. 'He… he was my grandfather.' The words felt small, absurd even, in the vast, echoing space. 'He never mentioned being involved in anything like this. Just… basic civil service work.'

Edgar’s eyebrows shot up. He wiped his hands on his trousers. 'Oh. Well. Most of the real policy-shaping happened in these 'task forces,' you know? The unsung heroes, or villains, depending on your perspective. The public-facing stuff was always boilerplate.' He tapped the page. 'Constitutional Resiliency, huh? Interesting phrase for… well, for what we have now.' He looked genuinely uncomfortable, shifting in his seat. 'You think he was… like, part of the core group?'

'I don’t know what to think,' Leah admitted, her voice lower than she intended. 'He was always so… by the book. Quiet. Methodical. The kind of man who colour-coded his spice rack.'

Edgar let out a nervous chuckle. 'The most dangerous kind, sometimes. The ones who follow the rules right off a cliff.' He leaned back, crossing his arms. 'What are you hoping to find, Leah? Something in here that says, 'And then we suspended democracy forever and everyone cheered'?' He paused. 'Because, respectfully, you won’t.'

'No,' she said, pushing the binder back towards herself. 'But I might find out how the cliff was built. And who laid the first stone.'

She spent the next hour cross-referencing her grandfather's name against other seemingly innocuous reports. There were more mentions, always peripheral, always in the background, a silent hand guiding the language of 'temporary measures.' The more she found, the more a knot tightened in her stomach. It wasn't a smoking gun, not yet. But it was a web, intricately woven, and William J. Harris seemed to be right at its centre.

Just as the archive lights flickered, signalling closing time, she found a slim, unmarked folder shoved deep into a box labelled 'Miscellaneous Correspondence – Q3 1989.' Inside, a single sheet of vellum, yellowed but preserved. It was a flow chart, handwritten, depicting the transition phases from 'Emergency Stabilisation Act' to 'Interim Governance Council,' then to 'Perpetual Caretaker Mandate.' And at the very bottom, in that same precise hand from the footnote: 'Project Chimera. Initialisation Complete. W.J.H.'