The city never slept, and neither did I. Neon signs flickered restlessly, casting fragmented colors upon damp streets below. Each pulse of light illuminated faces lost in the shuffle of existence—each carrying their own stories, their own burdens. Mine, however, was unique. I traded in memories.
My shop was tucked between forgotten alleyways, marked only by a faded wooden sign: “Recollective Remedies.” Inside, glass jars lined the shelves, glowing gently with captured moments—first kisses, triumphant victories, quiet conversations with those now gone. Memories stolen, bought, or bartered. I never judged why someone would part with a cherished recollection, or why another sought to possess it.
One rainy evening, the bell above my door chimed softly. A woman entered, her movements hesitant, eyes guarded. She placed a small jar on my counter, its glow weak, flickering like a dying candle.
“What are you selling?” I asked softly, feeling the fragility of the memory within.
“The last conversation with my husband,” she whispered, gaze fixed downward. “Before he disappeared.”
I opened the jar carefully, inhaling softly. The memory enveloped me: the scent of coffee, laughter mingling with concern, a gentle reassurance that he’d return soon. It was beautiful, heartbreakingly mundane.
“Are you sure you want to lose this?”
“It’s too heavy,” she breathed, eyes misting. “I’ve waited years for closure. Perhaps someone else will find peace in it.”
I nodded, trading her the usual tokens. But something in that memory lingered—a detail, subtle yet hauntingly familiar. A newspaper folded casually, a date circled: today.
Compelled by intuition, I closed early, carrying the jar through rain-slick streets to the place glimpsed briefly—a forgotten café at the city’s edge. There, at a worn booth, sat a man, older yet unmistakably the husband from the memory. He glanced up as I approached, eyes wide with disbelief, confusion flickering across his face. There was no spark of recognition, only wary uncertainty. Yet I recognized him instantly—aged, wearied, his features etched deeper with lines that spoke of years lived in quiet regret. The same eyes, though dimmed now, still held a fragment of the gentle laughter from the memory, but overshadowed by sadness. My heart tightened as I saw him struggle to place me, realizing that for him, I was merely a stranger who had inexplicably found him.
“Who are you?” he asked cautiously, eyes searching mine as though trying to recall a distant, forgotten acquaintance. “I don’t understand—how do you know me?” His voice trembled slightly, revealing an ache of uncertainty mingled with long-held solitude.
“I don’t know you personally,” I admitted gently, sitting down across from him. “But I carry a memory of yours. A precious moment that your wife kept safe all these years. It led me here—to you.”
He stared at me, emotions flickering across his face—hope, pain, confusion. “She… she kept it all this time?” he whispered, his voice cracking with disbelief and remorse.
“Your wife never stopped waiting,” I said softly, placing the jar before him.
He touched it gently, tears falling silently. “I left to spare her pain, yet caused more. Can memories be returned?”
“No,” I replied gently, “but new ones can be made.”
He rose slowly, clutching the jar, stepping back into the city’s embrace to reclaim his story. Alone in the café, I realized my own jars were filled with others’ lives, yet mine remained empty. Perhaps it was time to start creating memories of my own.
As I stepped into the night, I left behind the shop’s key, a simple note beside it:
“Closed. Out collecting.”