The cobblestone streets of Prague shimmered with rain as Mira pulled her wool coat tighter against the October chill. She had come here following whispers, rumors passed between grieving mothers in coffee shops and scrawled on bathroom walls in languages that shifted when you weren’t looking directly at them.
The address led to a narrow building squeezed between a vintage bookshop and a store that sold nothing but different types of salt. The brass nameplate read simply: “Acquisitions & Transfers.” Mira hesitated, her fingers tracing the locket at her throat—the only thing left of her grandmother besides the gaping hole where thirty years of shared memories should have been.
A bell chimed as she entered. The interior defied the building’s modest exterior: shelves stretched impossibly high, lined with glass vials that caught light like trapped stars. Each container held what appeared to be colored mist—some golden and warm, others deep purple or silver-bright.
“You have the look of someone who has lost something precious,” said a voice.
Mira turned to find a woman emerging from behind a curtain of hanging crystals. She was ageless in the way of people who had seen too much, her hair the color of pewter and her eyes holding depths that made Mira slightly dizzy.
“My grandmother’s memories,” Mira said, surprised by her own directness. “They’re gone. Not just from me—from everyone. As if she never existed at all.”
The woman nodded knowingly. “The Alzheimer’s took them first, didn’t it? And then something else came calling.” She gestured to the shelves. “I am Vera. I deal in recollections, in the substance of remembrance itself. Sometimes they disappear naturally, fade like old photographs. But sometimes…” She paused, studying Mira’s face. “Sometimes they are stolen.”
“Stolen?”
“There are collectors who harvest memories like others might collect rare wines. They prefer the painful ones—grief, loss, the final moments. These memories burn brighter, last longer in their collections.” Vera moved to a section of empty vials, their absence somehow more noticeable than the filled ones. “Your grandmother’s memories would have been particularly valuable. A life fully lived, love and sorrow in equal measure.”
Mira’s hand tightened on her locket. “Can you get them back?”
“Perhaps. But retrieval comes at a cost. To track stolen memories, I must create a trail—and trails can be followed in both directions.” Vera’s eyes grew serious. “The collectors will know someone is hunting them. They do not appreciate being hunted.”
Without hesitation, Mira nodded.
Vera smiled, the expression transforming her severe features. “Very well. But first, you must give me something of equal value as payment. A memory of your own—one
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