T
The Bazaar of Souls appeared only on the fifth Tuesday of a month, in the alleyways between the seconds of a clock. It was a place of fog and impossible geometry, where you could buy a vial of courage, a bolt of inspiration, or a pound of raw luck.
But the most popular stall belonged to Silas. Silas was a man who looked like he was made of old parchment and dry twigs. He sold memories.
His wares hung in glass baubles from the ceiling of his tent. They glowed with different colors. Golden for joy. Blue for sorrow. Red for passion. Grey for boredom (those were on the clearance rack).
A young woman named Elara entered the tent. She wore a heavy cloak and carried herself with the weary posture of someone carrying a burden too heavy for her shoulders.
"Welcome," Silas rasped, his eyes twinkling like polished beetles. "Looking to buy? Or looking to sell?"
"I want to sell," Elara said. Her voice was brittle. "I want to sell... him."
Silas nodded knowingly. "Ah. Heartbreak. A common commodity, but valuable if the love was true. Let me see."
He placed a crystal bowl on the counter. "Lean forward. Think of him. Let the memory flow from your temple into the glass."
Elara closed her eyes. She thought of the way he laughed. The smell of his coat. The rain on the window the day he left. A wisp of silver smoke curled from her forehead, spiraling down into the bowl. It swirled and coalesced, turning into a glowing orb of bittersweet violet.
When she opened her eyes, she felt lighter. There was a hole in her mind, a blank space where the pain used to be. She knew she had loved someone, but she couldn't remember his face. She couldn't remember why it hurt.
"Excellent quality," Silas murmured, examining the orb. "High purity. I can give you three happy childhood summers for this. Or perhaps a mastery of the violin?"
"No trade," Elara said. "Just take it. I don't want anything in return."
Silas frowned. "My dear, the universe abhors a vacuum. You cannot just remove a memory. You must fill the space, or the void will eat you."
"Give me something numb then," she said. "Give me the memory of a stone."
Silas sighed. He reached under the counter and pulled out a dull, grey pebble of a memory. "Being a rock in a riverbed for a hundred years. Peaceful. Boring. Cold."
He pressed it to her forehead. Elara shuddered as the grey dullness filled the hole in her heart. She blinked. Her eyes were flat, emotionless.
"Thank you," she said, monotone.
She turned to leave. As she exited the tent, a man rushed in. He was frantic, his eyes wild. He bumped into Elara, but she didn't react. She just kept walking, steady as a stone.
"Silas!" the man cried. "I made a mistake! I need it back!"
Silas looked at the man. "You sold me the memory of your wife's death last month. You said it was too painful to bear."
"It was!" the man sobbed. "But without the pain, I... I don't know who I am anymore. I look at her picture and I feel nothing. I need the grief. Please, Silas. I need to mourn her."
Silas shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid I sold that one yesterday. To a poet. He needed inspiration for a tragedy."
The man fell to his knees, screaming. Silas just polished a glass bauble with a rag.
"Memories are the bricks of the soul," the merchant muttered to himself. "Pull too many out, and the house falls down."
Outside, Elara walked through the fog. She didn't know why she was there. She didn't know where she was going. She just knew that the river was flowing, and she was a stone, and stones do not weep.