The bell above the door chimed as the girl stepped inside. Water dripped off her coat and pooled on the coir mat, the word “welcome” illegible under a thick layer of dust and grime. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and something sweet, like vanilla and nostalgia. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with delicate glass jars, each containing a swirling, glowing mist. Some jars were small, while others were large enough to hold memories of an entire lifetime.
“Can I help you find something?” asked the old man behind the counter.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I saw the sign outside. Is this where you can buy memories?”
The wrinkles on his forehead deepened from fine lines into grooves. “Not buy,” he sighed, gently correcting her. “You can only borrow them.”
“Borrow?” The girl furrowed her brow, confused.
“Memories don’t belong to you in the same way things do,” the man explained, reaching below the counter to retrieve a small jar filled with a soft silver light. “They are slippery and fragile – always changing, forever fading. Here, you get to experience them as they once were. But like all things borrowed, you must return them.”
The girl stared at the jar, its silver contents glittered like a meteor storm. She felt her chest tighten with longing, an overwhelming force drawing her toward it, the desire to relive her long-forgotten memories.
She hesitated. “Can I borrow a memory?”
“Of course,” the man replied, nodding. “What would you like to remember?” he gestured around the store.
There were so many old memories she wanted to relive – her grandmother’s baking when she visited the countryside, her mother’s warm hugs and soft voice, her father’s callous yet gentle hands as they held hers, the sound of laughter building pillow forts that felt like they would last forever. One memory came to the surface, as if it had been waiting all along.
“One of the summer picnics by the lake,” she said softly. “The cool water, the sunlight on my skin, the sickly sweet popsicles – I want to feel it all again.
“Good choice,” the man said as his steady hands uncorked the jar, releasing the wisps of light that danced in the air. He handed it to her, and as her fingers wrapped around the cool glass, his clouded obsidian eyes empty of human emotion bore into her innocent brown ones for the first time. “Take it,” the old man murmured, the warmth in his voice replaced by a haunting chill. “But remember, once it is over, you may not be the same person who borrowed it.”
The girl nodded and closed her eyes. As the memory flooded her senses, she felt herself transported.
She felt the warmth of the sun on her skin first, before inhaling the fresh, earthy scent of the dirt and trees. Her mother squealed as her father splashed water at her. The girl sat on the shore, a bucket hat perched on her head, her hands sticky from a melted orange popsicle. It felt too real. She could almost taste the slight saltiness in the air, and hear the soft hum of critters in the afternoon heat.
But a moment later, the edges of the memory began to fray. Her mother’s voice became muffled, and her father’s face blurred. The sunlight began to flicker like a dying light bulb as her vision contorted into grey. The more she tried to hold onto it, the faster it slipped through her fingers, dissolving into the silver light that surrounded her thinly like smoke.
When she opened her eyes again, the shop was dim. The old man was gone, the jar she had held now ash dusted on her palms. The bell above the door chimed once more, with its signature distant tinkling, and she found herself outside.
The store had vanished. The street was quiet, empty. Her memory was gone.
Chloe Lim is a medical student and writer. When she’s not studying, she loves reading, baking, and dabbling in various hobbies.