Title: “The Memory Thief”

Title: “The Memory Thief”

In the heart of a buzzing metropolis, buried beneath layers of concrete and blinking neon lights, was a shop that didn’t officially exist.

It had no signboard, no advertisements, and no customers—at least, not the kind who stumbled in by accident. It was called The Memory Vault, and it specialized in one thing: buying and selling memories.

The shopkeeper, Mr. Eron, was a peculiar man. Always dressed in a faded grey suit with silver buttons, he had eyes that looked like they had seen a thousand lifetimes. He wasn’t old, not by appearance—maybe in his late thirties—but something about his presence felt… ancient.

He had only one rule: “No memory is too precious, but once sold, it can never be taken back.”

One rainy night, a girl named Lyra pushed open the heavy iron door of the shop. She had bright green eyes and wore headphones around her neck that still played faint music. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

“I heard you buy memories,” she said, her voice trembling just slightly.

Mr. Eron didn’t look up from the book he was writing in. “Only the ones that matter.”

Lyra pulled a folded paper from her coat and laid it on the counter. It was a photo: her and her brother, taken two years ago. Both were laughing, caught mid-splash during a water balloon fight.

“I want to sell this one,” she said, swallowing hard.

Eron looked at the photo, then at her. “Your happiest day.”

She nodded. “It hurts too much now. He’s gone. I need to forget to move on.”

There was silence for a moment. Rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers.

“You understand the cost?” Eron asked.

“Yes.”

He gestured for her to sit. A machine resembling a typewriter fused with a spider’s web was placed on her head. With a whirr and a soft sigh, the memory was extracted. The photo turned to ash.

When Lyra walked out, she didn’t remember who the boy in the picture had been. She felt lighter—but also a little emptier.

Over time, more people came.

A retired soldier traded the sound of his daughter’s first laugh—because he couldn’t bear remembering what came after.

A pianist sold the memory of her first concert, to escape the pressure of always living up to that one perfect performance.

A man sold the moment he first fell in love, just so he could fall again without comparison.

And all the while, Mr. Eron kept writing in that strange leather book. Page after page. Each entry started the same: “A memory once held…”

One evening, a young boy—no older than 10—walked in. He was alone and had no umbrella, his clothes soaked. He looked at Eron with wide, curious eyes.

“Can I sell a memory that hasn’t happened yet?” he asked.

Eron raised an eyebrow. “How can you remember what hasn’t occurred?”

The boy pulled out a drawing. It showed him standing with an older version of himself. Both were smiling, surrounded by books and inventions. “This is what I dream of every night. I remember it like it’s real.”

Eron examined the drawing and saw something strange. Unlike other dreams, this one had structure, depth—almost like a prediction.

“You want to forget your future?” he asked.

“No,” the boy replied. “I want someone else to have it. Someone who’s forgotten how to dream.”

Mr. Eron stared at the boy for a long moment, then, unusually, smiled.

That night, Eron didn’t write in his book. Instead, he took out an old memory jar—one of the very first he had ever made—and placed the drawing inside.

Years passed.

People continued to trade fragments of their lives for peace, for relief, for freedom. But over time, the shop began to change.

One day, Eron looked around and realized something strange. The book he’d been writing was almost full—but not with other people’s stories.

The final entry read:

"Today, someone gave me hope. Not a memory, not a regret—just hope. I didn't know you could steal that too. But now that I have it, I think I might finally be free."

And just like that, The Memory Vault disappeared.

People still search for it. Some say it moves. Others say it never existed at all.

But every now and then, in the corner of a forgotten bookstore or a dusty attic, someone finds a small glass jar with something strange inside—a faded photograph, a child’s drawing, a laugh that only plays once.

And when they open it, for just a second, they remember something they didn’t know they’d lost.