The Memory Market

The bell tolled twice—soft and haunting—as Elara slipped through the alley behind the spice merchant’s stall. Smoke curled from nearby chimneys, carrying the scent of burnt cinnamon and something faintly metallic. Tonight was the last night the market would open, and the last night she had to find the man who could erase a past she never lived.

She tightened the scarf around her face and stepped into the crowd. No one here used names—only trades. A child’s laugh for a silver coin. A first kiss for a vial of courage. Memories hung in glowing orbs along the walls, each one pulsing faintly with the lives they’d once belonged to.

“Elara.”
She froze. No one should have known her name.

From the shadows, a tall figure emerged, his cloak stitched with runes that shimmered like starlight. “You carry more than memory,” he said. “You carry a key.”