The Collector of Forgotten Names

The old town square had always been silent at night, but lately, it felt too silent—like the silence was hiding something. The cobblestones echoed with each step I took, and the lanterns flickered as though they feared what lay in the shadows.

I wasn’t supposed to be out that late. My grandmother always warned me: “Do not walk past the square after midnight. That’s when the Collector roams.” She never explained who—or what—the Collector was, only that his presence meant danger. Like most warnings from the old, I dismissed it as superstition. Until that night.

It began with a whisper. Soft, almost kind, brushing against my ear: “Do you remember your own name?”

I froze. The square was empty, but the question lingered in the air. I pressed on, telling myself it was the wind. But then I saw him.

A tall figure stood beneath the cracked fountain, his back hunched, his hands busy scribbling in a thick, worn ledger. He wore a long coat, and from beneath his hat, I caught glimpses of pale, sunken skin. At his feet were dozens of scattered pages, each one covered in names.

He lifted his head, and though I couldn’t see his eyes, I felt them lock onto me.

“Ah,” he said, voice rasping like dry leaves. “Another name I have yet to take.”

My breath caught. “What do you mean?”

He held up the ledger, its pages filled with names written in strange, hurried strokes. Some I recognized: neighbors, children from the school, even people who had been missing for years.

“I collect what people forget,” he whispered. “When a name fades from memory, it becomes mine. Forgotten by loved ones, erased by time—lost. I keep them here.” He tapped the book with a long, brittle finger. “And soon, yours will join them.”

A chill ran down my spine. “No. People remember me. My family, my friends—”

He tilted his head. “Do they? When was the last time someone said your full name aloud? Names are fragile things. The moment they are not spoken, they begin to die.”

I thought of it then. My parents hadn’t called me by name in weeks, only “kid” or “you.” My friends used nicknames. Teachers called out numbers instead of names during attendance. A terrible realization crept in: my name was already fading.

The Collector stretched out his hand, and a faint glow stirred around me, like threads of light unraveling from my chest. He was pulling my name away.

Desperate, I shouted it aloud. Over and over, my voice cracking as I screamed: “I am—” The sound echoed through the square, and with each repetition, the threads dimmed and snapped back into me.

The Collector hissed, clutching his ledger as if the sound of my name burned him. “Names spoken are names remembered,” he growled. “You are safe—tonight. But the world forgets quickly. When they do, I will return.”

And with that, he dissolved into the shadows, his ledger closing shut like the ending of a story.

I ran home, my grandmother waiting at the door. Her eyes were heavy with knowing. She pressed her hand against my cheek.

“You saw him,” she whispered.

I nodded.

“Then remember this: a name lives as long as it is spoken. Do not let yours be forgotten.”

From that night onward, I made sure to write my name, to speak it, to let others say it often. It wasn’t vanity—it was survival.

Because somewhere out there, in the silence of forgotten streets, the Collector is waiting with his ledger. Waiting for the moment my name is left behind.

And he never forgets.