The Memory of First Light

In the dim, rust-colored city of Vestra, people no longer trusted their own emotions. Memories—real ones—had become luxury items, stored, sold, and recycled like digital files.

Aria was twenty-two and numb. Not because she wanted to be, but because she'd never felt anything real for as long as she could remember. Like many others, she lived through dull routines: grey sky, grey clothes, grey coffee. Emotions faded early for most people in Vestra. But there was a solution—Memory Markets.

The Memory Market was a quiet booth near the train station. Every few days, people lined up to rent someone else’s best moments. A first kiss, a child’s laughter, a mother’s hug, the thrill of running toward the ocean. They called it “living secondhand.”

Aria approached the booth one rainy evening. The glass glowed pale blue. Her hand hovered over the screen, heart unsure, mind desperate. One title caught her eye:

“The Memory of First Light”

Description: A sunrise watched from a cliff after a long night of grief. Feeling of peace, warmth, rebirth.

Something pulled her in. She paid. Downloaded. Plugged in.

The memory hit her like fire in her chest.

She stood on a lonely cliff, waves crashing below. The cold wind tousled her hair. The horizon stretched wide, still painted in stars. Then slowly, golden light crept across the water, spilling into the sky. Her chest lifted. Her lungs filled with salt and wonder. For the first time in years, Aria felt something—pure awe.

When the memory ended, she cried. Real tears. Warm ones.

For three days, the world seemed different. Music moved her. Laughter returned to her lips. Even strangers on the street seemed brighter. She found herself drawing, singing, walking longer just to watch the sky change.

But on the fourth day, she heard waves in her sleep.

On the fifth, she forgot her father’s birthday.

On the sixth, her hands drew cliffs and sunrises she’d never seen.

It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was invasion.

She visited the Memory Licensing Office. The technician frowned after scanning her file.

“You've integrated too deeply,” he said. “The memory is overwriting yours. This happens when the emotion is too intense. We can remove it, but…” He hesitated. “You’ll forget what it feels like to feel.”

Aria said nothing. She walked out in silence.

She searched the origin of the memory—an artist named Lena Callow, now living in the city’s Outer Zone. Aria found her in a dusty apartment above a closed gallery. Lena sat in a wheelchair by the window, painting with trembling hands.

“I gave away too much,” Lena said, not looking up. “That sunrise... was the last thing that was mine.”

“Why did you sell it?”

“I needed money. I thought I could live without memories if it helped me stay alive.”

Aria felt guilt claw at her throat. “I didn’t know it would hurt you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Lena said softly. “But if you keep holding on to what’s not yours, you’ll lose everything that is.”

That night, Aria stood alone on Vestra’s highest bridge. She looked at the blinking lights, the cars, the clouds overhead. The memory of first light still flickered inside her, like the final ember of a fading fire.

She whispered, “I want my own light.”

And just like that, she let it go.

She didn’t forget everything. But the sharp colors of the memory dimmed. She remembered it like a painting she once saw, not a life she lived.

But the feeling it gave her—that spark—remained. And now, she searched for it in her own world. In early morning walks. In the laughter of street performers. In painting a sunrise that was truly hers.