I walked through the endless expanse of the forgotten landscape, where memory recalls the whisper of teeth scraping on gravel. The sun, obscured by a perpetual haze, casts a world not unlike this one—yet undeniably different.
In this realm, my past is a commodity. I learned to trade in stories and fleeting impressions, sitting with the old men on benches carved into the street, their eyes gleaming with the echoes of long-lost days.
Occasionally, I sell my memories of the city—the bustling market, the laughter of children, the sweet scent of fresh bread mingled with the aroma of roasted coffee. They are less vivid now, these moments, as each piece is pulled from me and exchanged for the privilege of drifting through this timeless world.
I often wonder: who will tell the stories of the stories? Who will remember the rememberers? Perhaps I should write it down, or perhaps that too will be forgotten, like the soft drone of voices from the alleyways.
Explore further: Echoes of the Market | Shadows by the River
These paths are seldom traveled, yet intriguing: Lost Memories