You met him by accident. Or maybe not. It was one of those days when everything felt too loud, when your own thoughts felt like broken glass. You sat in the corner of a quiet café, trying to breathe through something you couldn’t name.

He sat across from you without asking. You didn’t even look up. And then, calmly, as if you’d known him for years, he said,

"If you tell me what memory is hurting you... I’ll take it. And you won’t have to carry it anymore."

You blinked. A stranger. A weirdo. A liar, maybe. But something in his voice felt... empty. Not in a dangerous way, more like someone who’d given too much of himself, and didn’t mind giving a little more.

You should’ve walked away. But instead, you asked, "What do you mean you'll take it?"

He looked at you, tired eyes, quiet hands. "I mean," he said, "you tell me, and I remember it for you. So you don’t have to."