The Memory Market

1. The First Rule of Forgery

Rule #1: Never steal memories—forge them.

Rule #2: Give clients what they need, not what they want.

Rule #3: Never forge a memory of yourself.

I broke Rule #3 on a Tuesday.

At my stall in the Night Bazaar of Elsewhere, I sold comfort in glass vials:

First kisses that never went sour ($500)

Absent fathers cheering at graduations ($1,200)

Dying pets living full lives ($750)

"Make me remember her," whispered Mrs. Gable, clutching a photo of her stillborn daughter. I forged a sun-drenched memory: a five-year-old girl laughing on a swing, sticky with ice cream. Mrs. Gable’s tears turned golden as she drank the vial.

"Bless you," she breathed, now believing she’d had ten years with Sophie.

I took her $800. Guilt was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

2. The Customer Who Knew My Name

He arrived as rain slicked the cobblestones. Older. Weaker. Still smelling of cedar and regret.

Father.

He hadn’t spoken to me since I left home at sixteen—after he missed my choir solo to close a business deal. Now he trembled before my stall.

"Elara," he rasped. "I need… a memory."

My chest tightened. Rule #3: Never forge a memory of yourself.

"What kind?" I asked coldly.

He slid a photo across the counter: me in a wedding dress, alone at the altar. He’d skipped my wedding too.

"I want…" He swallowed. "I want to remember dancing with you. At the reception."

Liar. The reception playlist had gathered dust.

3. The Memory I Couldn’t Forge

Memories are forged from three ingredients:

Emotion (client’s longing)

Imagination (forger’s skill)

Truth (one real sensory detail)

Father’s vial required:

Emotion: His shame (thick as tar)

Imagination: A father-daughter dance

Truth: The scent of my mother’s gardenias (her favorite)

But when I tried to weave the memory, my hands blistered. The vial cracked, leaking indigo smoke.

"Why won’t it work?" Father begged.

"Because you know it’s a lie," I snapped. "And so do I."

He placed a velvet bag on the counter. Inside: twelve raw memories—his happiest moments with me. Payment.

"Take one," he whispered. "Use its truth."

4. The Truth in the Vial

I chose a memory at random. Pressed it to my temple.

—I’m eight, sobbing over scraped knees—

—Father carries me home—

—His voice, gentle: "Brave girls get extra sprinkles"—

—He buys me ice cream, wipes my tears—

Real. And tender. I’d forgotten.

But the next memory surfaced unbidden:

—I’m sixteen, waiting backstage—

—Father’s assistant whispers: "He’s stuck in Tokyo"—

—I rip my choir robe, screaming: "I hate you!"—

I hurled the memory vial. It shattered against the wall, releasing hissing smoke.

"Heartbreak memories are volatile," said Kael, the memory-thief next door. "Handle with care."

5. The Dance That Never Was

I forged Father’s vial at dawn:

Emotion: My own grief (a sharper tool than shame)

Imagination: A moonlit dance, my wedding dress swirling

Truth: The cedar scent of his old suit

The vial glowed warm gold. Success.

Father returned, hope raw in his eyes. I handed him the vial. "Drink slowly. Side effects include… regret."

He swallowed it.

His eyes widened. He was there:

My hand in his, calloused fingers trembling

"Proud of you, kiddo," he whispers

We sway to "Can’t Help Falling in Love"

Mom’s gardenias perfume the air

Tears tracked through his stubble. "It’s… perfect."

Then the memory curdled. The truth-detail—cedar, not gardenias—unraveled the lie. The dance floor cracked. My wedding dress rotted to rags.

"NO!" Father clawed at his temples as the false memory imploded.

6. The Inheritance

Father collapsed. I rushed him to the human world.

At the hospital, the diagnosis: Advanced Lewy body dementia.

"He’s been losing real memories for months," said Dr. Vance. "His mind tried to replace them with… fantasies."

Father woke, frail but lucid. "The dance…?"

"Gone," I said bitterly. "Like you were."

He gripped my hand. "Then let’s make a real one."

He stood, IV pole rattling, and hummed Elvis off-key. We shuffled in the sterile hallway, nurses staring. No magic. No lies. Just a broken man and his angry daughter, swaying under fluorescent lights.

"Better than the forgery," he rasped.

I buried my face in his shoulder. Cedar. Truth.

Epilogue: The Keeper of Lost Things

Father’s gone now. I inherited his velvet bag of memories.

I still run the stall, but new rules hang above it:

Rule #1: Never forge new memories—mend real ones.

Rule #2: Charge only stories, not coins.

Rule #3: Some truths hurt. Heal them anyway.

Today, a girl brings a cracked vial: "My dog’s last day is fading!"

I repair it with a strand of golden thread—the same shade as Father’s wedding dance. The vial shows the old terrier chasing sunbeams, her laughter echoing.

"Thank you," she whispers.

I touch the velvet bag at my hip. Inside, Father’s final memory glows: us dancing in the hospital, his breath soft in my hair.

The market whispers that memories fade.

But love?

Love is a forger’s best ingredient.