The desk still carried the faint pale ring left by my mother’s porcelain tea mug, in the top right corner, a small imperfect mark of a human being in a room otherwise built for cold precision.

I had refused, every time it was suggested, to have it refinished.

Some marks you keep.

The firm had offered, more than once, to have the desk restored, to sand away the ring and the small dents and return it to a showroom finish.

I had refused every time.

The desk was not a piece of furniture to me; it was the last place my mother had worked, and the faint pale ring of her tea mug was a kind of fingerprint, proof that a particular human being had sat here and held strong opinions and drunk too much tea doing it.

A room built entirely for cold precision needs, I think, at least one warm imperfection in it, to remember what the precision is for.