You walked through the neon-lit streets of the city, the hum of hovering advertisements and distant chatter filling the night air. Memories weren’t just yours here—they were currency, commodities bought and sold in hidden stalls and back-alley exchanges. Sometimes, you caught glimpses of your own childhood in others’ eyes, fleeting flashes of moments you could no longer fully recall.

Sebastian appeared in your life like a whisper of the past, always just a step ahead of you. He wasn’t just anyone—he was searching for the memories you had lost, piecing together fragments of your childhood that had been stolen or traded away.

“You don’t remember,” he said one evening, his voice low, almost pained, as he handed you a small, glowing vial. “But I do. I remember the first time you laughed at the rain, the way you used to run through the park without a care in the world… I remember because I was there.”

Your heart ached at the recognition in his eyes. There was something familiar about the way he looked at you, the way he held those pieces of your past like sacred treasures.

“I… I don’t understand,” you whispered, your fingers trembling as you reached for the vial. “How can you know?”

“I’ve been collecting them,” he admitted, his hand brushing against yours. “Every memory that belonged to you, every fragment of who you were… I’ve kept them safe. And I need you to trust me, so we can put them back together.”

Over the following days, you followed him through dim corridors of the memory market, through alleys where memories were stored in glass jars, humming softly, waiting for the right mind to claim them. He would pause before certain vials, his eyes softening.

“This one… this is you on your seventh birthday. I watched you blow out the candles, even though you thought no one remembered.”

Each recovered memory made your heart feel heavier and lighter all at once—like pieces of a puzzle that were meant to fit perfectly but had been scattered. And Sebastian… he was the thread tying them together, a constant presence, reminding you that even if the past was fragmented, someone had always held it close.

One night, on the rooftop of a building overlooking the city, he finally handed you the last vial. “This one,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “is the moment you lost me. But I’m still here. I’ve never left.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you touched the glowing liquid. The memory surged through you—the warmth of his hand, the safety of his presence, the friendship that had silently grown into something more.

You looked at him, and for the first time in years, you remembered everything.

“I… I remember you,” you breathed, your lips trembling into a smile.

“And I remember you,” he replied, taking your hand in his, his thumb brushing over yours. “Always.”