The Memory Auction
The sound of the auctioneer’s voice sliced through the dense air of the underground market. “Lot 326: A child’s laughter, a memory of love, purity, and motherhood. Starting bid: 500 credits.”
Elara stood at the back of the room, her heart pounding. She hadn’t intended to come, not again. The last time she had left the Memory Auction, her head was fogged with fleeting glimpses of lives that weren’t hers—purchased moments that only deepened the emptiness she couldn’t explain. But this memory, this one, with the word “Mom” laced through it like a thread of silver, drew her forward.
Her hand shot up before she could stop herself. Others in the crowd turned toward her, curious—she was familiar enough in these circles. The woman who never stayed long, always vanished when the memory ended, as if haunted by something she couldn’t outrun.
“Five hundred credits. Do I hear five fifty?” The auctioneer scanned the room, but no one raised a hand. Not for this. Not for the memory of a child. Some bidders avoided it—parental memories carried a weight that could suffocate. Others came for simpler pleasures: the thrill of a lover’s touch, the adrenaline of their first crime, moments of glory snatched from war-torn lands. Not this one.
“Going once…”
Elara’s hand clenched the edge of her coat, her mind racing.
“Going twice…”
The finality of the hammer rang in her ears. “Sold!”
She was ushered into the back room, a cold and clinical place, the whirring of machinery the only sound. The memory broker, an older man with wires dangling from his wrists, didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Lay down,” he said, gesturing to the worn recliner.
Elara obeyed, eyes shut, heartbeat wild in her chest. The metal circlet fit around her temples, and for a moment, there was nothing but darkness. Then, the memory flooded in.
—-
She was sitting on a sun-drenched porch, an autumn breeze swirling orange leaves at her feet. A child—her child—ran toward her, arms wide, with the softest voice in the world calling out, “Mom!” Elara’s heart soared, filling with warmth she had never known. She lifted the child into her arms, feeling the solid weight, the sweetness of their small body resting against hers. There was laughter, pure and full of love, the kind that only existed between a mother and her child.
For that brief moment, she knew what it was to be someone’s mother.
—-
When she awoke, the weight of the memory clung to her, as if the child was still there, whispering her name. She staggered out of the recliner, the broker already distracted by the next client. But Elara couldn’t shake the feeling—this child, the one who called her “Mom,” was out there. And she had to find them.
—-
Days turned into weeks. Elara’s search for answers consumed her. She combed through databases, public records, everything she could find on children, mothers, missing families. The city was vast, its streets filled with people who had given up on the past, their memories stolen or sold, traded like commodities in the auctions. But Elara couldn’t let go. She started visiting orphanages, shelters, asking about children who might fit the hazy image from the memory.
The memory didn’t fade, as most purchased ones did. Instead, it grew sharper, more insistent, haunting her dreams, the child’s laughter echoing in her mind even when she was awake.
One afternoon, she found herself at an old, rundown orphanage on the outskirts of the city. The director, a tired woman with graying hair, eyed Elara warily as she asked her questions. “We’ve had many children through here,” the director said, flipping through records. “But nothing unusual lately.”
Elara nodded, defeated. But just as she turned to leave, a small voice called out from the shadows of the hallway.
“Mom?”
She froze.
A little girl, no older than five, stood at the doorway. Her dark curls framed her pale face, her eyes wide with recognition. “Mom,” she said again, running toward Elara, arms outstretched.
Elara’s heart thudded in her chest as she knelt to catch the child. “No,” she whispered. “It can’t be…” But the girl clung to her as if they’d never been apart.
Tears burned Elara’s eyes. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Sophia,” the girl answered, her small hand tracing the lines on Elara’s face as if she’d known them forever.
—-
The director cleared her throat behind them. “We found her about a year ago, no records, no family. We’ve been calling her Sophia, but… she’s never responded to anyone like this before.” Her voice wavered, a note of confusion seeping in. “She’s yours?”
Elara nodded slowly, though the answer didn’t make sense. Could a memory bought at auction lead to this? Was it just some cruel twist of fate, or had the memory been real after all?
—-
That night, Elara took Sophia home. The apartment felt different with the little girl in it, filled with the soft hum of life and warmth that had never been there before. Sophia’s laughter filled the spaces that once felt hollow, and Elara’s heart ached with the beauty of it.
But something lingered at the edges of Elara’s mind, something unsettling. The child was perfect, too perfect—like she had stepped straight out of the memory. And though Elara wanted desperately to believe that this was her daughter, that fate had somehow reunited them, a gnawing doubt festered.
One evening, as Sophia slept, Elara went back to the auction house. She found the broker, demanded answers. He shrugged, lighting a cigarette. “Memories don’t come from nowhere,” he said casually. “They’re taken, stolen, copied… But once they’re in your mind, they feel as real as your own. Who’s to say they aren’t?”
Elara felt cold. “Where did my memory come from?”
The broker leaned back, blowing smoke into the air. “From someone who doesn’t have them anymore.”
The weight of his words crushed her. “The mother—” Elara’s voice broke.
“She sold the memory. Gave it up. Maybe she’s gone, maybe not. Doesn’t matter. It’s yours now.”
Elara stumbled from the building, her breath ragged. Sophia’s laughter echoed in her ears, but now, it was tinged with a darkness she couldn’t shake. She had bought a piece of someone else’s life. And the child she had come to love—was she a daughter, or just the echo of a forgotten past?
—-
As the days passed, Elara watched Sophia with a growing sense of dread. The child was perfect. And one night, as she tucked Sophia into bed, the girl looked up at her and whispered, “You’ll forget me too, won’t you?”
Elara froze, her heart shattering. She pulled the child close, whispering, “Never, I could never forget you.”
But deep down, she knew that wasn’t true.
—-
The following day, Elara woke to an empty bed. Sophia was gone. The apartment was silent, the warmth gone, replaced by the cold ache of loss. No matter where she searched, no one remembered the little girl. No one had ever seen her.
It was as if she had only ever existed in the memory Elara had bought.
And now, even that was starting to fade.
—-
Elara stood in the doorway, her heart hollow, as the faint sound of a child’s laughter echoed from the edges of her fading mind.
