Paywall

The metal of the pendant is cool in the palm of his hand. Jamal runs his thumb across its surface absently, helping to dull the faded edges of engraved work even further. A simple golden locket with a rose engraved on its surface; tiny lines, meant to resemble vines, he supposes, emanating from the flower are etched into the heart-shaped trinket in a somewhat intricate pattern. He knows that it had once belonged to his mother, although he was not sure where she had gotten it herself, before giving it to him once he was old enough that he was no longer allowed to live at home.

Jamal imagines that the locket had once shone like the jewels worn by other people in the city. Although he never saw it when it was new, that he remembers, at least, he sometimes finds himself torn between spending his credits to clean it or continue to save so that he could maybe find himself living among those with perfect memories.

It was just a dream, of course, not living in the dingy workforce housing buildings that comprises more than eighty percent of the city. Besides, there is something about the tarnished gold that Jamal finds comforting. It is for this reason that he doesn't simply sell the trinket, undoubtedly giving him enough credits so that he wouldn't be in the precarious financial position he finds himself in.

Before Jamal can give it too much thought, he presses his thumbnail against the clasp and opens the locket. Beaming up at him from the faded parchment tucked within is the image of a young boy. The strands of his kinky-coily hair are forming very tight, small curls of zig-zags around his head. His eyes are wide, dark, and full of childhood innocence as he looks up at the photographer with adoration, the dimples clearly visible around his smile. Despite how time-worn the photograph is, a spray of freckles across the boy's nose and cheeks is visible against his dark skin.

Jamal has no idea who this boy is.

There is something scratching at the back of his mind, telling him that he absolutely should know who this boy is. That he's important to him, somehow, in a way that he can't quite name or place. Perhaps it has something to do with the empty cot on the other side of the room.

Jamal sighs, clicking the locket shut. He tucks it underneath the mattress of his own cot and lays down, staring at the darkened gray ceiling of the small, cramped quarters he lives in with his arms folded behind his head. The box-like unit isn't the cheapest one out there, but he is still grateful to have a roof over his head. The space is empty, save for the two cots, but it is still home.

The image of the child in the locket flashes to the front of Jamal's mind, guilt and remorse silently stabbing at his chest. It feels as if there is a brick wall erected between him and all memories surrounding this stranger in the locket, one that he can neither go around nor scale. He feels terrible that he doesn't know, but it's not his fault. Tomorrow, though, the credits for his work would be deposited into his account and he would be able to then access certain memories.

Just like every morning, Jamal is brought to consciousness by a buzzer and the lights in his quarters turning on. He groans and slithers out of bed, dragging his palms across his face, before staggering to the front door. In the hall before him, there is a new folded jumpsuit for work. Up and down the hallway, there are other people reaching for the exact same uniform, each in various stages of sleepiness but in the exact same routine.

Jamal gets dressed swiftly. He takes a brief moment to reach underneath his mattress, double-checking that the locket is still there, when the warning buzzer goes off. He quickly decides against returning the locket to its hiding spot, slipping it over his head, the metal of the locket cool against his skin as he hides it underneath his jumpsuit. Jamal heads out to the workers' bus and slides into his assigned seat. He was unwilling to pay extra for a window seat when he received the job, but his seating partner— a thin, waif of a woman whose name that Jamal had never learned— doesn't close the blinds.

There are no empty seats on the bus. Everyone has to be there, or else they would be instantly fired. It is not something that any of the factory workers want to risk. As the bus winds its way through the streets that wind between the towers where the poor live, Jamal can see other busses through the window, each one making their way to different workplaces in the pre-dawn darkness, their metal sides shining in the light from the buildings.

One of the busses, in particular, catches Jamal's eye; it is a children's bus. Although it is too dark for him to tell, he knows that there are empty seats in that one. Children, these days, don't tend to live for long. They are usually sent down into the ground, searching for the last remaining pinches of fuels within the bowels of the hollow Earth. Their small size allows them to travel into various nooks and crannies that adults would overlook. It's often phrased as a learning opportunity.

Jamal fondly remembers his own days as a young headlight-wearer. His overseer, a perfect memory man by the name of Nathaniel, had made his work feel so important and powerful that it was worth the aching lungs at the end of the workday. Jamal felt like he was a brave explorer in the stories that his mother used to tell him.

Eventually, the busses lurch to a halt. All of the workers stumble off of the bus and into the enormous metal doors of the factory. The doors are locked behind them as they settle into their positions for the day. They aren't needed to make or prepare anything; rather, they are there to ensure that the machines that make the products are working perfectly. Having workers actually make the objects would be too expensive; so would having the machines stop for any reason. That meant that they often had to repair the machines while they were still in motion. It wasn't unusual for workers to be missing fingers, hands, or perhaps even their whole arms. The fact that Jamal still had all ten of his fingers, scarring aside, meant that he is very good at his job.

He settles into his usual place, his seat partner to his right and the people on the seat opposite him to his left, the deafening clang of metal and shouting foremen familiar to him, as is the crowded room and the scent of soot and oil. If he tries to concentrate over the din of the machinery, he can pick out the individual voices of the foremen.

While tending the machine in front of him, Jamal allows his thoughts to drift back to the locket. Once again, guilt claws at his chest, and his breath hitches slightly, although no one but him knows. Whenever he tries to access memories about this person, he once again finds himself smacking into that same wall. Jamal's heart twists with regret; every inch of his being is telling him that he absolutely should know who this person is. He can list every single piece of the machine before him, he can name the exact temperature that is needed to heat the metal in order to bend it to the shape needed... He can describe every single piece of manufacturing that goes into creating the busses that take him and the other workers to the factories, but when searching his mind he cannot find a name for the boy in the heart-shaped locket against his chest.

At the end of the day, Jamal lines up with the rest of the factory workers at the memory bank. One by one, they authorize the transfer of credits from their accounts so that they can remember a life outside of their work. By the time Jamal reaches the counter, the worker manning it looks rather bored and disinterested.

"Serial number?"

"Seven-one-nine-four-one-four-two-seven," says Jamal.

The worker types in the number into the system. "I'm sorry, but there's an issue with your account."

Jamal's heart skips a beat. "What?"

"You were late on your last food payment and you need to pay extra for interest," says the worker, picking idly at a spot on his chin. "You don't have enough."

"That can't be, I planned every bit of my budget perfectly," Jamal says with a frown.

"Are you saying that the system is wrong?" the banker says, looking down at him and raising an eyebrow.

"No, of course not, I just need to access my memories!" Jamal says desperately, panic rising as the smiling face of the boy in the locket flashes in his mind.

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before," says the worker dismissively. "Step out of line, please."

"N-no! Wait! Please," begs Jamal. His eyes dart around the factory floor quickly, trying to think of something to do, his arms wrapping around himself. His heart is racing and he can feel himself trembling. The banker worker stares down at him with disdain, waving a couple of burly guards over to haul him away.

The locket shifts underneath Jamal's jumpsuit slightly. "W-what if I arranged a trade?"

The worker behind the counter raises an eyebrow at him. "What could you possibly have?"

Jamal reaches beneath his clothes and withdraws the locket, holding it out before him. The worker's eyes widen and his lips curl into a smile. He waves off the approaching guards and leans forward, interest in his eyes. "Is that real gold?"

"Yes, it is," gasps Jamal. "Is it enough to access the memories?"

The worker raises an eyebrow and strokes his chin. "Well, I'm not technically allowed to do this, but I think we can work something out just this once. Hand over the locket and you'll have the credits transferred to your account later this evening. I'll go ahead and unlock the memories for you."

Relief washes over Jamal and his shoulders slump. He hands over the locket with only a pinch of regret, as the worker writes down a note with his serial number on it, remarking that the locket would only be enough to get his memories back just this once.

Jamal steps out of line and a shaky laugh bubbles out of his throat as he starts to make his way back to the bus home. As he steps outside of the factory, his eyes shoot upwards towards the smoggy sky, thanking whatever deities he could think of that he had brought the locket with him today instead of leaving it in its hiding place.

On the bus, he practically collapses in his seat. Jamal closes his eyes and leans back against the seat, exhaustion washing over him, waiting for the wall blocking his memories of his loved ones to be dismantled brick by brick.