The memory merchant’s shop smelled of lavender and loss. Vera pushed through the beaded curtain, her grandmother’s wedding ring heavy in her palm—the last piece of Papa she had left to trade.
“I need to forget,” she whispered to the woman behind the counter, whose silver hair cascaded like moonlight over shoulders draped in scarves that seemed to shimmer with captured moments. “Everything about him. The cancer, the pain, watching him fade. I want to keep only the good memories.”
The merchant’s eyes held the weight of a thousand traded sorrows. “Child, memories aren’t ingredients you can separate like oil from water. They’re woven together—the beautiful and the brutal, the sacred and the profane. To extract the darkness, I must take threads of light as well.”
Vera placed the ring on the worn wooden counter. “I don’t care. I can’t carry this anymore.”
The merchant lifted the ring, studying how it caught the lamplight. “Very well. But know this—forgetting changes more than memory. It changes who you are.”
She led Vera to a room lined with glass bottles, each containing what looked like swirling mist. Some glowed warm amber, others churned dark as storm clouds. The merchant selected an empty vessel and held it to Vera’s temple.
“Think of him,” she commanded.
Vera closed her eyes. Papa teaching her to braid challah. Papa’s laugh echoing through their kitchen. Papa’s hand in hers as the machines beeped their mechanical lullabies. Papa’s last breath, soft as a prayer.
The memories flowed like silver smoke into the bottle. With each wisp that left her, Vera felt lighter, emptier. The merchant corked the vessel and placed it on a high shelf between bottles labeled “First Heartbreak” and “Mother’s Voice.”
“It’s done,” she said, returning the ring. “Keep this. You’ll need an anchor.”
Vera stared at the ring, confused. It was beautiful, clearly vintage, but she couldn’t remember where she’d gotten it. The merchant was watching her with sad, knowing eyes.
“Did I… was I here for something?” Vera asked, the question feeling strange on her tongue.
“You were looking for your grandfather,” the merchant said gently. “He’s waiting for you at home.”
Vera nodded, though something felt wrong about that. As she turned to leave, she glimpsed herself in an antique mirror. A young woman with hollow eyes and silver threading prematurely through her dark hair. She looked like someone who had loved deeply and lost everything, but she couldn’t remember what.
On the highest shelf, a bottle pulsed with warm light, holding the laughter of a man who had taught her that even in darkness, there were always stars. But the bottle might as well have contained someone else’s dreams.
Outside, autumn leaves crunched under her feet as she walked home to an empty house, the weight of absence following her like a shadow she couldn’t name. In her pocket, the ring—her only compass back to a love she had chosen to forget—grew cold against her fingers.
Leave a Reply