The Memory Market

The moment Lia stepped into the Memory Market, the scent of lavender and static filled her lungs. Rows of glowing capsules floated in midair, each pulsing with a faint heartbeat of light. A whisper surrounded her—the echo of a hundred lives for sale.

“First time?” the vendor asked, his eyes not leaving the holographic screen in front of him.

She nodded, clutching her coat tighter.

“Buying or selling?”

“Selling,” she said. Her voice barely made it out.

The man looked up. “Memory type?”

“Personal. Painful.” Her jaw clenched. “I want it gone.”

He waved her over to a velvet chair. “Have a seat. Let’s see if your past is worth anything.”

Lia had heard stories. The Memory Market wasn’t new, just… underground. Since neural mapping became common, people started extracting memories the way others might sell blood. Some bought for nostalgia, some for experience. Others—especially in the shadows of the city—used memories as tools. Or weapons.

For Lia, it was survival.

The memory she carried was unbearable: the fire, the scream, her mother’s final look as the building collapsed. It haunted her every night, always the same, always worse. If she didn’t get it out soon, she was sure it would destroy her from the inside.

The vendor attached a sleek headset and tapped on his tablet.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered. “But do it.”

It lasted only seconds. Her breath hitched. Then the heat… the smoke… her voice calling for help. And then—silence.

When it was over, she was crying. But not from pain. From emptiness. The burning had stopped. The nightmare was gone.

The vendor studied the capsule that now held her memory. It glowed with red-orange pulses, like flickers of flame.

“Strong stuff,” he muttered. “Someone’ll pay well for this. Trauma with vivid sensory imprint. Clean transfer, too.”

She stood, knees unsteady.

“How much?” she asked.

“Enough to keep you warm and fed for a few weeks,” he replied. “If you’re open to… another sale, come back.”

She nodded. She didn’t plan to.

But a week later, she did.

The peace she’d felt after selling the memory faded. There was a new emptiness now. A hollow where grief used to live. Worse, she started dreaming again—not of fire, but of memories that weren’t hers.

A snowy hill. A lost dog. A lullaby in another language.

She returned, desperate for answers.

“Side effects,” the vendor explained. “You don’t just lose memories—you lose the part of yourself that grew around them. Sometimes the market leaks, especially in high-traffic zones. You might absorb traces of others.”

“Can I get mine back?” she asked. “The fire… my mom?”

The man shook his head. “Once sold, it’s gone. Property of the buyer now.”

“Who bought it?”

He hesitated. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do.”

He leaned in. “We don’t track buyers. But… word is, there’s a private collector. Builds profiles on enemies using real memories. Puts people on trial using what they’ve forgotten. The elite call it justice. I call it weaponry.”

Lia’s blood ran cold.

That night, she traced a black-market connection, bribing her way into the collector’s vault. It was a glass room lined with shelves of glowing capsules—red, green, blue. Labeled, catalogued.

She found hers in the red section: #M14-FL4 – Domestic Trauma / Urban Zone / Civilian Female, 17.

She held it in trembling hands. The heat returned. Her mother’s scream echoed in the capsule, faint but undeniable.

It was still hers.

She couldn’t take it back—but she could stop them from using it.

The fire she started in the vault was poetic. It wasn’t planned, just… inevitable. Memories ignited one by one, bleeding light and sparks. Alarms wailed as she stumbled out, smoke curling around her hair.

She didn’t care. She smiled.

In destroying her own pain, she’d unwittingly allowed someone else to use it. But now, it was gone for good—hers and everyone else’s. The market would recover, she knew. But tonight, the ghosts were free.

And so was she.