The trade

Every memory has one owner. Sell it and it's gone, the way the dead are gone. People bring you

first kisses, last mornings, things they'd rather not name. You have a loupe, a scale, a feel

for what a thing is really worth, and rent due at the end of the week.

But a memory is not always what it looks like. A bright first kiss can hide a grief. Dig past

the surface, or trade on it and hope. Looking closer costs the seller's patience, and some

things wear thin when you handle them.

The two markets

The Bright Exchange trades in cherished things, in the open, for honest margins. The Shadow

Ledger pays far better, and asks that you keep it quiet. The elite pay handsomely for other

people's suffering. The Bureau has opinions about that, and sends people who don't show a badge.

Neither road is free. A clean name draws steady trade and thin profits. A dark one draws money,

raids, and a kind of customer you can't always turn away. Most keepers walk the line. The line

is the game.

The people

Twenty regulars with lives, families, and reasons. They come back. What you buy from them

changes what comes back through your door. A cheerful seller who keeps selling her bright

mornings will, one visit at a time, stop being cheerful. You'll watch it happen. You did it.

The Night

Something happened on this street, and nobody will say what. It's in the drawer labels, in the

worn chair, in how some regulars look at the door before they knock. Read people's memories,

pencil in what you believe they were to it, and let the truth set in ink. Twenty-five endings.

One of them is the whole of it.

The shop is yours

- Appraise layered memories with loupe and scale. The surface pays. The truth sells.

- Haggle in real coins on a real counter. Mask what needs hiding. Pour out what you can't keep.

- Fully voiced: every seller, every buyer, every ending, and the one who reads you the story.

- A run takes an evening. The truth takes longer.