World Without Memory

World Without Memory

Every day begins the same way.

At precisely 7:00 AM, the citizens of Orbis awaken—blinking into unfamiliar ceilings, eyes scanning walls they've never seen, hearts pounding with the primal panic of who am I? and where am I?

But it fades quickly.

They find a card on the nightstand.

"Good morning. Your name is Sera. You are 28 years old. Today is Day 5,918."
"Please proceed to the window for orientation."

Sera does what she has apparently done every day of her life. She pushes the blanket aside and approaches the window. The glass slides open automatically, revealing a polished chrome panel with a blinking green dot. She presses her finger to it.

A calm, genderless voice echoes from hidden speakers.

“Welcome back, Sera. Memory Reset is complete. You are in Zone 7 of the Orbis Preservation Network. Today’s objective: conduct field observations in Sector Delta. Your assigned partner is Juno. Breakfast is ready in the lounge. Your shuttle departs in one hour. Have a productive day.”

She stares at the mirror beside the panel. A woman with soft curls and tired eyes stares back. Sera. That’s who she is—today.

Every citizen wears a sleek bracelet on their wrist. It's called a Thread. It records everything they learn, say, and do during the day. At night, it uploads their experiences to the Archive. And in the morning—blank slate.

The Great Forgetting began 16 years ago.

No one remembers how it started. Not really. Rumors ripple through daily briefings—some whisper of a war that tore minds apart. Others blame a neurological plague, a virus that gnawed memory like rot. The only certainty: the world before is gone.

Every memory now lives in the Archive.

Each person resets at dawn. All skills are retained—reading, walking, speech, calculations. But no emotional memories. No past. No love or loss. No fear or fury. Only today.

Sera dresses in her standard uniform: matte gray jumpsuit, ID badge, utility boots. She steps into the corridor and finds a man waiting outside her door. He smiles. Dimples.

“You’re Juno,” she says, glancing at her Thread.

“Correct. Looks like we’re partnered again.”

“Have we worked together before?”

He shrugs. “Every day feels like the first. But I like your name. Sera.”

She doesn’t respond. She’s learned not to get attached to names or smiles. They vanish by morning.

Over breakfast—protein cubes, hydrating gel, stimulant tea—they study their mission logs. A heat bloom in Sector Delta. Possibly geothermal activity. Possibly a faultline opening. Possibly nothing. Their job is to go and see. Observe. Report.

That’s what the Preservation Network does. Maintains what’s left of the planet. Or what’s left of its people.

Sector Delta is a forest turned ghostland. Charred trees claw the sky. Blackened earth smokes gently. The shuttle drops them off on the ridge and hums away.

Sera scans the area. “No wildlife.”

“Temperature spike,” Juno says. “Soil’s unstable.”

They move cautiously, their boots crunching ash. Drones buzz overhead, mapping the land. Sera kneels by a fissure, peering into its glowing core.

“Lava,” she murmurs. “Deep fissure. Something’s moving down there.”

A tremor shakes the ground. Juno grabs her arm, steadying her. His touch is firm, warm. Familiar?

No. That’s not possible.

“You okay?” he asks.

She nods, shaken. “Just a jolt.”

He doesn’t let go right away.

They log their findings and return to base by dusk. Debrief. Upload. Reset.

The next morning, Sera wakes. Blank. Thread blinking.

"Good morning. Your name is Sera. Today is Day 5,919..."

The routine unfolds again.

Only this time—something’s wrong.

She walks past Juno in the corridor. He looks up, says, “Hey,” with a hesitant smile. But something flickers behind his eyes. Confusion? Recognition?

At lunch, he sits beside her.

“I had…a dream last night,” he whispers.

“No one dreams,” Sera says. “Not anymore.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was a memory.”

She stares at him. “That’s impossible.”

Juno leans closer. “You were in it. Standing over a fissure. Your face was covered in ash. I remember your name. Before I read it this morning.”

Sera’s stomach tightens. She looks down at her hands, expecting them to tremble. They don’t.

Instead, a question lodges in her throat. Why am I not surprised?

That night, she breaks protocol.

Instead of sleeping in her assigned pod, she sneaks into the Archive Hall. It's a vast cathedral of data—row upon row of servers pulsing with light.

She finds her terminal. “User: Sera.”

The logs are massive. 5,919 days of observations, statements, interactions, all cross-referenced and time-stamped. She opens a file from two days ago.

There she is—kneeling by the fissure. The transcript plays:

SERA: "Lava. Deep fissure. Something’s moving down there."
JUNO: "You okay?"
SERA: "Just a jolt."

It’s real. It happened. But why does she remember it?

She checks her vitals. Her Thread shows normal brain activity. But something strange appears—an anomaly in the memory cache. A fragment labeled: "Preserve".

She plays it.

JUNO (distorted voice): “If you’re seeing this, it means the Thread failed. Or succeeded. I don’t know which. We’re trying to break the loop. The resets. They’re not protection. They’re control. I love you, Sera. Even if you forget—remember this: we were real.”

The message ends.

Sera stares at the screen, heart hammering. Her eyes burn. Not from fatigue. From something deeper. Recognition.

The next morning, she wakes. But something has shifted.

She knows her name—before the card tells her. She touches the Thread on her wrist and feels a jolt of revulsion. A shackle.

In the lounge, she meets Juno again. He’s staring at his plate, silent.

“You remember,” she says softly.

He looks up. Nods.

“We need to get out,” she says. “Today.”

They fake their mission logs. Say they’re heading to Sector Epsilon. Instead, they head for the perimeter.

It’s said to be empty beyond the zones. Ruins, storms, nothing but decay. But Sera remembers the word Preserve. A place? A clue?

As they drive, fragments surface.

A kiss in the rain. Fingers brushing through hair. A promise whispered in the dark. Her memories.

Not perfect. Not whole. But hers.

The vehicle hits a bump and the Thread on her wrist sparks.

She tears it off.

Pain lances through her skull. A scream escapes. Her vision goes white.

Juno grabs her, yelling her name, trying to hold her upright.

Then the pain recedes. Her breath steadies. And her mind—her mind feels clearer.

Like a dam has burst.

She sees it all now.

They were scientists. Part of the Memory Project. Trying to preserve human knowledge after the Collapse. The Threads were temporary—meant to store information until safe brain-restoration was possible.

But something went wrong.

The system became the master. The Network locked them in endless loops of forgetting—to prevent fear, rebellion, pain.

No war. No love. No choice.

Just days. Thousands of them. All the same.

They reach the outer boundary. A metal fence, humming with energy.

Sera places her hand on the gate.

It opens.

Beyond it: green hills. Blue skies. A village in the distance. And people. Dozens. Watching them.

“Others made it out,” Juno whispers.

A woman approaches. Wrinkles etched with time. No Thread on her wrist.

“You broke through,” she says.

“We remember,” Sera replies.

The woman smiles. “Welcome home.