Clutching the parchment in his grasp He sprints, ducks, weaves, each page flitting in his red hands as the date marked first of November Slips from his fingertips.

The memory of Mama slips from her mind, As casual as sleight-of-hand, As crafty as deception As November first becomes a day she deems normal as any other. And the sound of the heartbeat monitor Beeping. Beeping. Ceasing is lost.

The rest crunch and crease in his white knuckles; Screaming, pleading, Days of August, July, and January shrieking as they tear, Her wedding may have been white, her brain remains as such— blank, devoid. So does the memory of Papa, the creaking of his rocking chair eyes grinning, face unaware Of what he was about to lose; and who she had to pick or choose.

He thinks to gain a steady buck Scrolls of time in store, And though there’s nothing left for her Would it hurt less or more?

In a world where memories could be bought and sold, Evelyn found herself standing in the bustling marketplace of Reminiscence Square. Traders hawked their wares—flasks of first loves, vials of childhood laughter, and bottles of long-forgotten dreams—each promising a taste of someone else’s past. But Evelyn wasn’t there to buy; she was there because something precious had been stolen from her.

Just days before, she had woken up to find her most cherished memories missing. The feel of her mother’s embrace, the sound of her father’s laughter, the warmth of family dinners—they were all gone, ripped away as if they had never existed. All that remained was an aching void.

Desperation and anger drove her through the maze of stalls. She had to find the memory thief who had taken her past. Clutched in her hand was the only clue she had: a silver coin engraved with an unfamiliar symbol, found on her bedside table the morning the memories vanished.

Evelyn approached an old merchant known for his dealings in rare fashion but stolen memories

To get it she was going through a maze of evil criminals and henchmen underwood of vice to get it.

The old merchant looked at the coin he said it was rare very few people had obtain it

He gave a list of names

Went yo a gene researcher found who she could be related too

Got him

Getting too him was the next problem

                                                          Part 1: The Memory

Some things people say, stay with us for a lifetime. Perhaps it's because the ideas or messages they wish to convey in that moment, hold such significant meaning to us, that they actually break through the various inner shields we cover ourselves with, and embed themselves deep into our souls forever. For each and every one of us, we are formed by such moments, and this was one for me.

"The individual experience can be summed up in all but one word. Can anyone guess what that word is?"

It was something I heard in a lecture on 'Individual consciousness'. At the time, I regarded the topic with much scepticism, but, since I had a profound crush on the guest lecturer, Dr Michael Holmes I decided I would attend with a few friends. Due to following him on social media and watching recordings of his talks for years I expected the lecture to be good. But 'good' does not do justice to what I actually witnessed that day. There's an indescribable presence he gives off that one only notices in-person. The way he walks with grandeur, captivates an audience with the dynamics of his voice and communicates ideas through perfectly calibrated hand gestures to accompany his words, as if playing a complicated instrument; Dr Holmes was a master of owning the room.

I clearly remember what happened immediately after Dr Holmes posed his question to the audience at the beginning of the talk. At first there was silence, as people gathered their thoughts; then a cluster of chatter as if the audience were a very monotone, unsynchronised choir; and then finally: the responses.

"Unique!" shouted an audience member with a profound confidence. Dr Holmes did not respond right away, instead he just lulled a low, listening "Hm" and paced around the stage with his arms wrapped behind his back. Immediately other members of the crowd started to vocally pounce on our visiting lecturer.

"Ignorance!"

"Struggle!"

But non of these resonated with the Doctor. Perhaps due to the excitement emanating from the audience, as more and more joined in with their responses, a fire was lit inside me and I felt an unusual desire to interject myself into the conversation. I had an idea as to the answer he was looking for.

"Memory!" I shouted, managing to squish all the other voices in the room. I saw the professor's ears twitch and covered my mouth, embarrassed as he looked directly at me with a blank expression.

"Had I been wrong?" I asked myself and looked away from him quickly and towards the floor.

I then heard him shout:

"Miss, what is your name?"

My heart stopped and anxious thoughts, that had started to trickle into my mind, now flooded in. Why single me out? Does he think I am an idiot? Have I made a fool of myself? Despite not being in the correct frame of mind to respond, I reluctantly resumed eye contact with the professor.

"Annabelle Winters." I responded, finding my voice. The professor no longer had a blank expression and was instead smiling.

"You pass." he responded with a cheeky smile, before shrugging his arms and saying "Or at least... I would say if you had been in my class. That was exactly the answer I was looking for Annabelle. Well done!"

I've never felt so relieved.

"Yes, that's exactly correct." He said with vigour and began to pace around the stage once more, animating his arms as he spoke. "Fundamentally, people... individuals... are only who they are because of the collection of memories they contain. The whole basis of our identities, could be said to be formed by our unique past experiences. Like a predictive mathematical model, prior successful habits and behaviours indicate how we should act in the future. They work for us, thus we continue to rely upon them. As our memories are updated and we gain new experiences, we can change. What are we humans, if not just a consequence of our own memories?"

"𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐬, 𝐢𝐟 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬?"

                                                            Part 2: The Diary

Entry 1:

I'm finally home... I just wish it all didn't seem so foreign to me now. After the hijacking of my HUB I have no memories of me left. It's a curious experience, feeling like you're just a hollow shell. It's as if all that I am right now is a body, soldering on and continuing life for the sake of simply existing. I am now without history nor purpose and it has created an overwhelming emptiness inside that I hope will ease in time. I'm grateful that I at least have some awareness due to the HUB retaining very basic, factual information as a backup. I can remember objects for example, like a pen and pencil, I can remember how to write and work with numbers, and I can even remember types of societal roles like a policeman, doctor or nurse. But memories pertaining to myself... are non-existent.

The doctors said that it would have been possible to restore me had my 'anchor', a memory which holds my complete sense of self, not been stolen as well... but it was. Eviscerated as if it never existed. I am curious as to what memory my 'other' selected for their anchor. Was it a happy memory like a wedding (am I married?), or a childhood memory (do I have kids?) of great importance or something else altogether? I guess I'll never know and even if I did, I doubt it would mean anything to me now. That ship to recover myself has now sailed with the HUB rebooting.

I am unsure where to go from here. The girl Hannah, who found me in the vegetative state, said we should catch up over tea tomorrow. Although she called me her friend, I see her as nothing but a stranger; and without any idea of who I even am now, is it possible that we can remain friends?

Entry 2: It was a pleasant time at the café today with Hannah. She's an incredibly funny girl, I guess we must not have met up in ages because my chest was aching by the end! Despite seeming normal she had the wildest suggestion... she suggested I access MemStore through the VR interface of my HUB.

"If you don't have any memories of your own, let's just buy you some new one's!" I can't believe she said that and so optimistically as well.

Although I have no memory of the hijacking, an unease lingers within me when I even think about using the HUB. It scares me to think that this current iteration of me might be wiped from existence if such an incident happened again. Now that 𝑰'𝒎 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, I want to stay... 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐!

Entry 3: The words that Hannah said to me have loomed over me all day like the dark clouds outside my window. And, the funny thing is, I feel relieved having listened to her.

I managed to access the MemStore easily enough and started exploring the various memories up for sale. I purchased a few using my credits and was amazed at how fascinating it was to see life through the eyes of another. Some memories I saw were of special occasions like a child's birthday, other's were just funny events with friends and others were deep and reflective. All these emotions I'm now feeling, I wonder if something special will activate in me if I see one of my own memories? Would it act as a trigger like with some amnesia patients and everything will come flooding back to me, or will I be unaffected?

In some ways, I want to recover my old self... out of curiosity more than anything. As my new sense of self is starting to develop, I wonder how similar I am to my previous incarnation. If we're the same, recovering my old memories can only help. If we're complete opposites.... I dread to think....

Entry 4: I've made an important decision today! It's time to reinvent myself!

I don't think you're supposed to purchase a memory to be your anchor, but, seeing as I don't have one anymore, I don't see the harm. If I'm going to define this new identity of mine, it should be through my own choice!

Entry 101: It's been some time now since I started hunting for an anchor memory and I've finally decided on one.

The emptiness within me that accompanied the aftermath of the hijacking has dissipated. There are still cracks, like a broken mug glued back together, but otherwise I feel that I have solidified this new identity of mine.

The memory I have chosen may seem odd to others, but I knew deep in my core that it was the one for me.

I wonder what it was about that memory of a lecture. Was it the way the man on stage carried himself with such grandeur and elegance while speaking ,or was it simply the words he said I related to so deeply? Perhaps due to my hijacking, I felt a connection to each phrase, each sentence that was uttered by him and realised that this memory, would be my anchor. It is a memory that truly contains me, an identity based around moving forward. I may no longer be the person I once was and I've come to accept and be content with that fact. I am now she who moves forward, no matter the past.

From now on I shall be known as "Annabelle Winters". Although I wasn't her in my past life, who's to say I can't become her from now on?

"𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐬, 𝐢𝐟 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬?"

End

Rage fuels my steps as I search every face of villagers. Someone has stolen a memory, one that I often looked back at and cherish more than my own soul. I need to back, more than anything.

Everytime a memory is sold, the person only ever has a fading, vague sense of the memory. I can only recall a cold summer morning and the heavy feeling of sadness. One can find who bought their memories due to a trail of light which will evidently lead them to their memory. Many people who freely sell their memories cut the trail of light and lose their memories forever. But some follow it in seek of reclaiming it. That is what I am doing.

I follow the trail of light hastily, until it suddenly stops at the end of the dock. The person must be on a boat. I scan the docks and find one boat swaying with a vague light around it. There it is. I rush to the boat and jump on board. A sword immediately is at my throat.

“I knew you’d come,” said a deep voice from the shadows. “Give me back what is mine!” I shout, careful to not move. A man, tall and strong, steps from the shadows. He lowers his sword. And my sister walks beside him, with a look of dread and sorrow. “Marla? What-what are—“ “I had to!” She cries, “I had to take that horrid memory from you!” “It was not your choice!” I yell back, feeling more than betrayed. Pure anguish fluttered on Marla’s face. She tried to step close to me in an attempt to comfort, but I step back and say in a vile tone, “Stay away from me.” I then bring my attention to the man, who had been silently observing while still holding my memory. “And who are you?” I command, staring daggers at him. He smirks, lighting up his handsome arrogant face. “I was hired by your sister to steal the memory and drag you here,” he says in a perky, deep voice. “And why would you lead me here?” “To do this.” In a sudden motion, the man takes my memory and clasps it in his hands. He lights a match and holds it near. He is going to destroy the memory…forever it will be lost. “NO!” I shout, but it is too late. The flame lights the memory on fire and it turns to ash. “No!” I shout in pure agony. “Mom, no Mom, don’t leave me again!” Tears fall from my eyes in torrents. Pain seizes me. It is like grieving all over again. The man’s face suddenly turns sorrowful, and Marla’s is filled with pure regret. From the ash, a single stream of smoke rises. I lost the memory of the last moment with Mom before she died, and now it has died along with her. I will never forgive, for I can never forget.

Give it back It’s mine And only mine It means nothing to you It’s my memory Sacred and special To you it’s just a story A thought Give it back Now!

The vase twisted as it fell off the night table into a violent shatter. “Nooo.” The girls eyes were wrinkled and she searched and her fists pressed fitfully against her temples. “It’s gone. It’s not here. IT’S GONE!” Her wrist pulsed absently, forgotten in the fray. It had been taken from her. That she knew.

The steps of her flatmate grew nearer to her door. “Ana! Ana honey are you okay in there.”

The white trim that frames the maple door way came into focus as the warmth fell to her skin. She sees the small carving on the edge and a choked sob is released. Her feet meet cold cement as she hurtles toward the markings on the edge. The knocking subsides as her trembling fingers raise to the delicate lines and she sighs. Resigned, she whispers. “I know you but I know not what you are. You were stolen from me. You were cheris-“

“ANA! SAY YOU ARE ALRIGHT AND I SHALL GO!”

She looks up to the height of where the raven haired woman would be standing if there were not a door separating the two. Another slow sigh and her emotions have begun the slow weave to keep the girl together. Her lips tighten and turn upward slightly. . Damn these newsreel thin walls. “I am… I am fine Aneth.”

She twists the door handle as she pulls her weight to open the door from her seat. A friend would help.

She ran down the street, shaking her hands above her head. He was spotted: the man who had stolen her most cherished memory, and she was taking matters into her own hands. He didn’t look like much, just a normal guy, but to her, he was public enemy number one. She tripped but found her balance again, and screamed after him.

“Hey! Stop!”

He didn’t look behind as he ran. He kept running, and she kept trying to replay her most cherished memory in her mind but couldn’t recall it. Once it had been purchased, she lost all access to it. That was the main reason she wanted it back.

The other reason was because she knew, deep down inside, that nobody but her should have that memory. That it was a bad thing, for some reason.

When she caught up with the man she found herself staring face to face with her brother.

“Let’s figure this out,” she said to him, reaching for the memory.

Holding her breath, Shai took three tentative steps towards the counter. It was fleshy with jack o’lantern teeth around its old timey cash register. Shai closed her eyes. She’d done her research and knew the entire pawn shop was coated with a psychotropic paint job designed to enhance moods. She counted to three and then to ten, and then three again, Opening her eyes, Shai saw the register counter and the pawn store clerk behind it worn matching smirks.

“Pick yer poison princess,” the clerk asked returning his eyes to his book. “We’re burning daylight here.”

With pockmarked walls and scratched bare industrial floor, Desperation Pawn & Loan made Shai think of an old-fashion abattoir. She pushed down the revulsion creeping up her throat. The emotionally responisve counter waggled its projected tongue at her.

Shai gathered her cardigan tighter and took comfort in seeing the clerk held his antique volume upside down. It is all smoke and mirrors, she thought over and over. Shai pasted on her best PTA smile.

“Sorry please can you help me? I’ve need been to a place like this,” Shai said.

“Oh really,” the clerk said with a raised eyebrow, looking her up and down. “You look like an old pro to me.”

Anger bubbled inside Shai as she drew herself up into an imperious stance. The pawn shop’s light flipped from violent to red flasher and the counter cackled, “can I speak to the manager.” Shai deflated.

“I need help. Please. I went to the the psych cops and nothing. I have been to every pleasure palace from New Philly to Merion. Even consulted a God darn witch doctor and I still can’t find my memory. My life is on the line. Desperation is my last hope, Pemberley,” Shai said reading the clerk’s name tag. “Everyone said you guys can source anything.”

As the shop lights glowed up to a moody neo-noir in silvery blues, the counter burst into tears. Annoyed, the clerk swiped left and an virtual interface appeared.

“Get on with it, dollface. I don’t want to be stuck in your shopworn melancholia till my break. Scan your bioprint and if your memory is anywhere on the web Desperation can sniff out who hacked it and where it hidden. But you know the price?”

Gulping, Shai looked at the engagement ring. The walls began to tick as a giant pendulum appeared over her head. Pemberley tapped his foot. The counter sniffled. Whatever it takes, Shai said to herself. She shoved her upturned palm into the interface’s shimmer.

Marcy swiped from the memory, despite it constantly being replayed she still would blush. Her boyfriend, her Ricky, and his powder blue eyes that stared up at her at the botanical gardens. On bent knee, asking to marry her.

As silly as it sounded she had a routine of memories, the pair’s first date, their first kiss on the Ferris wheel, their anniversary dinners, and of course of that afternoon at the botanical gardens. Next was the wedding.

Marcy swiped along her bank, a process that got shorter with each week, as she sold more and more memories in bundle forms. Like when she drove back from the supermarket, bought tampons, cleaning her toilet ‘just uneventful days’ she assured herself. Sold virtually to fervent niche collectors. That seemed to horde specific events. Sure, they only sold for a dollar to two, but, in this age any penny would be worth its weight in gold.

At least at first. As the prices around her loomed larger and larger, she had to part with some more… important memories. Especially from her engagement period. A process she only remember by a note pad she kept to keep track of all transactions. After all, audits were getting more frequent. Each one caused a grimace but was worth substantially more. The ink read:

‘Telling Shanti she’d be your maid of honor’

‘Buying the flower girl dress for Lucia’

‘Going flower shopping with Grandma June and Mom’

‘Bachelorette ski trip’

As cringeworthy as it was to part with them Marcy knew what she had to do.

So, onwards she swiped for her most coveted memory. Her wedding day.

The catherdral, as ethereal as a renaissance painting.

‘No.. wait… it was a barn…. Humble and homely.’ Marcy thought correcting her self. The lapse seemed odd. After all she had played that memory in this pattern nearly every night.

Marcy continued to swipe towards it. Palms clammy from anxious worry.

‘No…no.. but the dress… silky and flowy..’ Marcy thought swiping back and forth through the memories quite frenetically. ‘Or was it lace.. and form fitting…’

The slot, gone, instead filled with the gleeful memories of Marcy on her honeymoon.

The air had caught in her lungs. Choking her and slamming her mind into a tailspin. Retrace… Retrace… Retrace…

Fleetingly she imagined it sold within the bundles she had to sell en masse. Out of desperation obviously.

They couldn’t have been. She triple, quadruple checked them.

The next thing that filled Marcy’s brain was sudden indignation.

“Thief… thief…” Marcy whispered to herself sitting up from her bed, her sweat sticking to her skin and t-shirt peeling off the bed.

The word stuck through her head in place of the memory. As she ran a comb through her hair, changed from her t-shirt to a thin thermal and cargo shorts. Though the night was stark and black, Marcy was invigorated.

In a fit of passion Marcy reaches for her Swiss knife on her counter before fitfully leaving her apartment.

Attempts try to break into any corner of her mind to find any detail. Not the veil, the officiant nothing.

Stepping out into the street the rain pelts her clammy skin.

“Thief…Thief…” Marcy repeats with a nervous cadence as she trods down the sidewalk. Indignant. Taking mental stock of what little she has left.

She scrolled through her memories.

“Where the hell is it?” She thought.

She knew she had 276 memories in this folder. The memory of that was stored in a different folder on her Google Drice.

But there were only 275 memories. And these weren’t just any memories - these were “sacred.”

The folder was even labeled as such: “Shannon’s Sacred Scenes.”

Her stomach was in a knot. She knew a sacred memory was gone, but she didn’t know how, and she literally didn’t know what it was about.

“Fuck. Why did I use my biometrics at the gas station? I knew that place was shady as hell.”