The Archivist

“I need to forget her,” The old man said turning his wedding ring with his thumb like he was tracing the edge of a bruise.

She had heard innumerable variations of that sentence, the quiet plea, the calm command. The way his voice cracked, though, the way it lingered on the word “need” made her look up from his chart.

“Personal effects go here,” she said, motioning towards a silver tray. “Be thorough. People often forget what’s in their pockets—wallet photographs are commonly missed and can be… disorienting, after treatment.

The man set the ring on the tray like setting a baby bird back in its nest. It made a metallic clink as his fingertips brushed the gold one last time. The chair groaned and he settled in.

The lights overhead buzzed faintly as she powered on the system. The room was sparse: clean, frosted glass entrance, a single leather recliner beside her console. No personal effects. Nothing to distract. Just enough comfort to suggest kindness.

She slid into her chair, her badge catching the edge of the desk:

Eidetic Health Solutions Memory Reclamation Division ARCHIVIST // AR-08

The Archivist flipped through the pre-admission paperwork, key phrases the old man had flagged floating near the top. Starting points for untying the Gordian knot of his memories. “Lilies, Otis Redding, Coffee” She flipped again scanning for the consent agreement.

“I see you’ve consented to the reclamation procedure,” she said, eyes still on the forms, “but I’m required to remind you: removing certain memories may result in alterations. Occasionally, a memory cascade occurs—when one item is so tightly woven with another both need to be extracted.”

She glanced up.

“Some clients report emotional responses that feel... foreign.”

The old man nodded; jaw tight.

“Please,” he said. “Can we just get it done?”

“We’ll begin shortly,” she replied, “but I need you to verbalize, in your own words, what that means.”

“It means,” he began, then stopped. A single tear slid down his cheek. “God—I thought I was out of tears.”

He coughed, swallowed. Tried again.

“It means I might smell something, hear a song, and suddenly get sick, or cry, or feel happy… and not know why.”

“Yes, sir. That’s exactly it. It may feel like déjà vu, or like—”

“Miss,” he interrupted gently, wiping his face with the edge of his sleeve. “I just need to forget.”

She nodded.

Minutes later the man was wired to the machine. Hazy images flickered across the screen as it calibrated. “I’m about to administer a dissociative sedative,” she said, slipping into the standard script. “You won’t feel a thing. Nothing to worry about. We perform the procedure hundreds of times a day. No more PTSD. No more depression. No more bad days.” Her voice softened on the last line.

Just as she'd been trained to.

She looked up. He was staring at the ring again. “Sir, we don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.” She had clientele like this before. She was good at recognizing the ones that weren’t ready to let go. The ones that still wanted to hold onto the pain a little while longer.

“No,” he said. “I’ve hurt long enough.”

“You’ll feel much better shortly…” she replied, falling back into the rhythm of customer service. “Once the procedure is complete, you’ll be escorted to another room. Your support person will be waiting.”

The sedative rolled into his veins. Eyes fluttered shut. The machine began.

She typed in the first key word, matched it with the neural map, and watched the memories. She couldn’t help the small voyeuristic thrill. The pleasure of seeing life through another’s eyes.

Lillies. His wife’s favorite flower.

The screen flickered: their first date, a French restaurant. He fed her a spoonful of his seafood stew, she laughed, full and open. The Archivist could almost hear it, like a delicate musical note. His wife’s fingers drifted to the bouquet of lilies beside her plate. She stroked the cellophane wrap, absentmindedly, like the texture itself made her giddy.

She flagged the memory for deletion. The system traced the subsequent paths outward. One thread loosened, and another and another. Neural pathways lit up like city streets at night.

“Preference deviation detected.”

The monitor chirped.

6%, still within expected parameters. Removing lilies led to gardening, which led to watering, to petrichor. But it was still only 6%, the next time it rained he’d probably get it back.

She pressed delete. Watched the lights go dark. Moved onto the next word.

Otis Redding led to their wedding song, their first dance, to dancing barefoot in the kitchen, while something warm and red bubbled on the stove, to a recipe for chicken parmigiana and a dislike for a particular brand of red wine. She was okay with that; she preferred deleting negative associations.

Preference deviation 3%.

Again, she pressed the delete key and watched the neural map wink and go dark. On the recliner, the man stirred. His right hand drifted across his lap, then rose to his left hand. His fingers paused there, hesitating. His thumb made slow, searching circles against bare skin.

She waited for the motion to stop. Then she typed the next word: coffee.

The system froze. A red error pulsing on the screen.

“Preference deviation detected: 47%.”

She swallowed hard. In her years with the Memory Reclamation Division, she’d only ever come across a maximum deviation of 10%. 47%... that’s unheard of.

She began to trace the pathways. Followed the cascade.

Coffee led to how she always drank it—lukewarm. To the creamer she loved. To the color brown. Brown like the scarf that covered her head when she started treatment. To waiting rooms. To coffee, again. Scorched and tasteless, in Styrofoam cups with little plastic lids that never quite fit right. To her hands, the way they fit inside his. To holding them at breakfast, the morning she chose hospice.

It led to a thousand small things. None important on their own. But together, they were bricks. Bricks that formed the shape of a life. The shape of her.

She looked at the neural map flickering like a constellation over his brain scan. This wasn’t data. She was looking at scaffolding, delicate load bearing beams supporting a man’s life. A lifetime of love. Of devotion.

Remove this and it all came down.

Remove her… and what was he left with.

The screen continued to flash its red warning across her face. Waiting for instruction.

Watching these memories fit together was like watching a seed bloom into a weathered oak, then being told to take a hatchet to it. One branch at a time. She stared long and hard and began to understand: He didn’t love despite the grief. He loved because of it. It was what remained. It was what survived her.

Removing these memories felt like allowing his wife to die again.

She looked down at the ring on the table. Her throat felt dry while her eyes filled with tears. The pain this man must have felt. Choosing to excise his very heart, to remove so much of himself.

Her finger hovered over the button The red warning blinked, patiently. Waiting for her to do what she was trained to do.

The Archivist looked back at the neural map, at a life well-lived.

With a click, the stars dimmed and then vanished.

She pulled her hand away like the key had suddenly grown painfully hot. Love, pain, morning coffee, all gone. The procedure was complete.

She looked at the man.

He was peaceful now. Mouth slack, hands soft on his lap. The grief was gone. And something else had gone with it.

Minutes later, he stirred.

“Sir? It’s time to wake up.” He blinked, sat up slowly. She handed him a cup of coffee as he yawned.

“Thank you… miss?” he said taking the cup, lifting it to his lips. He winced “Ah! Too hot, I… always let it cool down... I’m… not sure why?” He smiled, turned the cup in his hands, and absentmindedly reached for his ring finger. His thumb brushed the bare skin. He stopped. Blinked. Then let his hand drop to his lap.

He looked at her again, eyes bright. “Where am I?”

She forced a smile, “You’re safe. I’m an archivist. Someone will be along shortly.” He nodded, stood, offered her his hand. She shook it, felt the divot on his ring finger. A physical scar from memories that tried to cling tightly.

Once she was alone, she turned to the back of the room, to a small non-descript door that, unless you were an archivist, could be easily overlooked. Pressing on the door a seal popped with a faint hiss. She was met with cool air and rows of shelves, cabinets, hooks.

She walked slowly, her hand trailing across the shelves. A cracked ceramic ashtray. A red ribbon. A matchbook from a diner long gone. A bronze key that no longer opened anything. A dried corsage. A pair of pristine baby shoes. A stuffed rabbit with one missing ear.

Every object a life. Every item a wound. Entrusted to her by someone who could no longer bear to carry it. She remembered every one.

Farther back, near the end of the corridor, she opened a drawer. Inside, velvet lined compartments waited, a reliquary for grief. She reached into her pocket. The ring was there, small and solid. Warm against her palm. She held it a moment. Then slid it gently into an empty slot beside a pair of diamond earrings.

She closed the drawer softly. Rested her hand on the wood. She was the last witness to a thousand sorrows. The world called it healing. But she knew better.

She turned back toward the light and wiped her hands against her coat.

There would be another client soon.