The Memory Merchant

The Shadow District remained long after I had left its confine. The stifling silence, bizarre architecture, and the ominous warnings of Lirien all seemed to set into my brain like splinters. Every step in toward the heart of the city was heavier, the shadows clinging to me as if they would not let me be.

It was silent now, its hands stopped at some indeterminate time. Still, I could not bring myself to let it go. It felt like the only tether I had in this strange unraveling world.

But the city wasn't done with me.

I stumbled on the bazaar by accident-or at least I told myself that.

It didn't appear on any map I'd looked at, and nobody spoke of it in casual talk. One moment I was following the faint glow of threads guiding me along; the next, I was in front of this sprawling market, which, against all odds, pulsed with life in ways no other place in the city seemed to do.

Thick aromas hung heavy in the air: incense and spice and the underlying metallic tang, like blood. Stalls composed from mismatched wooden planks, canvas, or rags divided one from another along dirt pathways, peddlers exhorting those passing by toward impossibilities.

There were bottles of liquid that shimmered like molten gold, trinkets that seemed to hum with power, and strange plants whose leaves writhed as though they were alive. The people here were just as unusual: hooded figures with glowing eyes, shadowy forms that seemed to flicker in and out of existence, and others whose appearances were so warped I couldn't tell if they were human at all.

I felt out of place, an intruder in a world that wasn't meant for me.

I wandered in a daze through the bazaar, drawn by the strange, surreal wares on display. One stall was selling keys in every shape and size, each surface etched with patterns that seemed to shift as I looked at it. Another stall was offering mirrors that reflected not your image, but your thoughts, swirling across their surface in vivid chaotic colors.

It was overwhelming, yet I couldn't bring myself to leave. Something about this place felt important, like it held answers to questions I hadn't even thought to ask.

And then I saw him.

It was different from the other stalls: bigger, ornate, and with a canopy above of deep purple cloth that shimmied in the light. There were bottles of every shape and size, lined up upon the shelves and filled with contents that glowed in every color of the rainbow.

He stood behind the counter, both commanding and disconcerting all at once. His features were sharp, almost too perfect with a pair of piercing amber eyes that seemed to stare right through me. His smile was friendly, didn't reach his eyes.

"Kael," he said with a smooth melodic voice. "I have been expecting you."

I was beyond surprise anymore that he would know my name. The city had its ways, and I slowly started to admit to myself how the luxury of privacy was long forfeited.

"What is it that you want from me?" I asked, fighting to keep the quiver in my voice low.

He suddenly laughed, sending shivers down my spine; somehow, it was both comforting and chilling in one. "It's not about what I want. It's about what you want.

He motioned to the bottles that lined the shelves. "Memories," he said, his voice reverent. "Each of these contains a moment, a fragment of someone's life. Joy, sorrow, triumph, regret—all preserved, waiting to be experienced."

I stared at the bottles, a sense of unease creeping over me. "You sell memories?"

"Not just sell," he corrected. "I trade, I collect, I preserve. Memories are the most precious currency, after all. They define us, shape us. Without them, what are we?"

His words struck a chord in me. I thought about the blank spaces in my mind, the fragments of my past that felt just out of reach.

"You're curious," he said, his smile widening. "I can see it in your eyes. You've lost something, haven't you? Something important."

I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the pocket watch. "What are you offering?"

He reached beneath the counter and produced a small bottle filled with a deep blue liquid that seemed to swirl like a storm.

"This," he said, holding it up to the light, "is a piece of your past. A memory you've forgotten."

My heart hitched. "How do you have that?"

He shrugged, his expression inscrutable. "The city provides. It's what it does."

"What's the price?" I asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

His smile became predatory. "A piece of your humanity. Nothing physical, of course. Just… a sliver of what makes you you. A fair trade, don't you think?"

I recoiled as the weight of his words landed. "No," I said, my voice firm. "That's not a fair trade."

He raised an eyebrow, his smile never faltering. "Are you certain? Think of what you could gain. The answers you seek, the truth about who you are. Is that not worth a little sacrifice?"

I shook my head, stepping back. "I can't."

For a moment, his expression darkened, the friendly façade cracking to reveal something colder, more sinister. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual smile.

"As you will," he said, placing the bottle back on its shelf. "But a lesson for you, Kael-our past makes our future. Without it, you'll be on open waters, unable to plot your course forward."

---

I quivered as I fled the stall, his words still resounding in my ears. The bazaar was different now; the bright colors and the din of haggling merchants took on an evil hue.

What had I forgotten? And more importantly, why was it hidden from me?

The questions chewed at me as I made my way back to the heart of the city. But no matter how hard I tried to push them aside, they lingered, a constant reminder of the choices I'd made—and the ones I had yet to make.

That night, I dreamed about the bottle. The deep blue liquid swirled before my eyes, calling to me with a voice I couldn't ignore. It promised answers, closure, a chance to reclaim what I'd lost.

But there was something else, too-something darker. A sense of dread that made my chest ache and my skin crawl.

And when I finally woke, that dream was as alive as in the instant I'd lived it. The impression of his words would not easily be shaken: Our past dictates our future. Without it, I am lost.