I limp along the side of the barren street, coughing as the smoke-filled air pushes into my lungs. Coming up soon, I see the pure white building, home to the Memory Man. No matter how elusive he sounds, trust me, everyone in my part of town knows the Memory Man. How else were you to survive if you couldn’t sell your memories?

I stumble up to the door, knocking weakly. The door swings open of its own accord and I stagger inside. I join the line of the poor and unfortunate vying to sell their happiest memories in exchange for a few meager coins. One by one, white uniformed guards match the next poverty-stricken person through huge oak doors to see the Memory Man.

The next thing I know, it’s me standing in front of the oak doors. Then, grabbed by the elbow, I’m tugged through the doors. A familiar face awaits, that of the Memory Man.

“Hello,” he says coolly.

“I can sell you the memory of my first time trying ice cream,” I offer in a rasping voice.

He makes a tutting sound, then cocks his head sympathetically.

“Three coins at most.”

His words hit me like a brick wall. Three coins will barely buy me a bowl of soup for tonight. Nevertheless, it’s better than starving and I except his offer. Upon his request, I call the memory to the front of my mind and succumb to the odd sucking sensation as he pulls the memory out of my head. As I leave, I try to recall the memory, but there’s nothing there, as usual.

Later, I struggle towards the food market, dragging my sprained ankle in the dirt. Wordlessly, I slap my three coins on the counter and a small bowl of soup is pushed towards me. Taking it with a grateful nod, I find a vacant area and sit down with my back against a crumbling wall. Carefully, so as not to spill a drop, I spoon the soup into my greedy mouth. Too soon, the bowl is bone dry and my head lolls against the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of blue, a color uncommon in a place so dreary. My head flops towards the color and I see a beautiful bunch of small blue flowers growing out of a crack in the concrete. I smile, picking one and tucking it into my hair behind my ear.

I suppose I fall asleep against that wall because I’m still there when I wake the next morning. Mustering my little strength, I push myself up to begin the trek back to the Memory Man. I have to eat today after all. I try to smooth my hair down a bit and my fingertips brush over the flower in my hair. A fleeting smile flits across my face as I remember its stunning color.

Not long after, I stand before the Memory Man once more.

“I can offer you my memory of my mother,” I say, voice cracking.

My mother passed not even a year ago, and it seems too soon to be giving up my memories of her, but I was running out of memories to sell.

He nods with a grim look on his face.

“Five coins.”

Not as much as I’d hoped for, but enough to purchase a side of bread with my soup tonight. Again he pulls the memory out of my head and sends me on my way with my small payout. As usual, I try my hardest to recall the memory while I walk away from the building. But this time, I’m shocked.

The memory is still there. Clear as day, I can remember everything about my mother. Her smile, her eyes, her laugh. Every moment I spent with her up until she died is still there. I begin to hobble faster towards the food market, just in case the Memory Man realizes he didn’t take my memory. After buying my soup and slice of bread, I visit a floral booth, selling small bunches of flowers to those few who could afford it. Pulling the flower out of my hair, I show it to her.

“What flower is this?” I ask.

The elderly woman behind the counter smiles, revealing missing teeth.

“Those, dearie,” she says in a pleasant trill. “Are called scorpion grasses, also know as forget-me-nots.”

I nod and walk away, back to my spot against the wall. I reminisce on my treasured memories of my mother and smile. Forget me not indeed.