CHAPTER 1: THE PRICE OF REMEMBERING
The blood slips between my toes before I realize I am standing in it.
Cold marble presses against my bare feet. Above me, a ceiling light flickers, illuminating the crimson puddle spreading across the floor. Somewhere behind me, a woman sobs. Her voice sounds distorted, as though she is screaming from beneath a lake.
I turn toward the sound.
A man’s hand rises into view, gripping a silver knife.
Then the memory breaks.
I rip the neural interface from my skull.
White light floods the extraction chamber. My chair groans beneath me as I clutch its armrests, fighting the urge to vomit. Copper coats my tongue. My fingers tremble against the smooth plastic.
On the monitor, red letters flash.
AUTHENTICITY FAILURE: UNRESOLVED EMOTIONAL SIGNATURE.
I wipe my mouth with my sleeve.
“Counterfeit,” I mutter.
My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Eight years auditing memories have taught me that fear is not evidence, pain is not proof, and a convincing recollection can still be a lie. I enter the rejection code, sign the report, and watch the file disappear.
Another person’s past erased from my screen.
Another ordinary morning at the Bureau of Echo Auditing.
Yet my hands keep shaking.
I press two fingers against the scar behind my left ear. The skin there is ridged and tender. I cannot remember receiving the injury, but that is hardly unusual. Memory loss is the price of living in a world where everything can be sold.
Outside the extraction booth, the trading corridor reeks of wet concrete and burnt coffee. Neon advertisements ripple across the glass ceiling, their artificial sunshine illuminating a city drowned in rain.
SELL YOUR SORROW. BUY HAPPINESS.
A woman beneath the advertisement stares at her wrist terminal. Her lips move silently as she confirms a transaction.
Perhaps she has just sold the memory of someone she loves.
I keep walking.
At the coffee kiosk, I press my wrist against the scanner. A red light blinks.
BALANCE INSUFFICIENT.
The vendor looks up from his machine. His mechanical eye clicks as it focuses on my identification badge.
“Auditor Vane. Rough morning?”
“Coffee.”
“Payment first.”
I try again. The scanner emits the same miserable beep.
The vendor leans forward. “You could sell a memory. First kiss, childhood birthday, anything sentimental. People pay well for those.”
“I don’t sell my memories.”
He laughs, exposing a gold tooth.
“Then enjoy being hungry.”
I leave without answering. His words follow me into the rain.
For years, I have believed that keeping a few memories untouched makes me different from the people I audit. Perhaps that belief is merely another lie I tell myself.
Back in my apartment, I open my personal ledger. Rows of transactions fill the screen.
MOTHER’S FACE: SOLD.
TENTH BIRTHDAY: SOLD.
FINAL CONVERSATION: SOLD.
I scroll past them until an unfamiliar entry stops me.
MEMORY RECORD 0-000.
No date. No buyer. No transaction receipt.
ACCESS RESTRICTED.
I enter my credentials.
The screen flickers.
For one impossible second, a woman’s face appears. Blood stains her lips. Her eyes seem fixed on mine.
Then she vanishes.
My terminal chimes.
An urgent Bureau assignment appears, carrying unlimited payment authorization. The attached recording contains a single frozen image: a bloodied hand reaching toward the camera.
A thin scar crosses its thumb.
I turn my hand over.
The scar is identical.
Beneath the image, the timestamp appears.
THREE YEARS AGO.
My missing years suddenly feel less like an accident and more like a locked door.
The file opens.
A woman whispers my name.
And somewhere inside my skull, something begins to remember.
