In the city of Litus, every citizen is required to trade one memory each year. This program is meant to help people understand each other better, turning strangers into friends so that the cycle of cruelty can be broken. Posters at tram stops talk about reducing crime, making neighborhoods calmer, and encouraging communities to remember one another. While the program is backed by data and persuasive language, it really comes down to personal exchanges: someone's first boat ride, a child's last birthday, or a sunny afternoon that can be shared between people.
Mara Mendel treats this memory exchange program like a machine that needs careful maintenance. Her workspace, called the conservatory (a name that sounds friendlier), is located three floors up in an old warehouse that smells like chemicals and vinegar. The walls are lined with shelves filled with polymer envelopes, each labeled with neat black handwriting: the donor's name, the date, and what items are included. Tools are organized like instruments on a tray, each chosen for a specific job. Stabilizers hum behind glass. Her job requires precision: diagnose, repair, adjust, and confirm. While the rules are clear and filled with consent forms, the actual work requires a gentle touch with memories and a firm hand when dealing with mistakes.
That morning, the intake board lit up red. High priority, urgent. Mara pulled up the ticket. It was for Elias Rhee, labeled "Best Summer," with artifacts attached: salt that smelled like a hurricane, a child's drawing, and a pressed orange peel. The words flowed through her fingers like a steady beat. She noted the orange peel, which was taped to the packet, thin and brown at the edges, almost transparent like dried skin. She held it up to the light and imagined the person who had pressed it, appreciating the small care that turns an object into something special.
They call these artifacts "anchors" because they hold memories in place, helping restorers connect smells to images and feelings to sounds. Mara recorded details about the orange peel: 2.4 grams, oily residue that matched citrus, and curled edges from age. She scanned the drawing with a high-resolution scanner and analyzed the salt under a spectrometer. The data appeared on her screen in organized columns, transforming a life into rows of information.
A poster on the conservatory wall promoted the memory exchange, stating that it reduces violence by building emotional connections. Mara had seen the statistics: neighborhoods involved in the program reported fewer assaults and complaints. That was how the program convinced city officials and donors to support it. However, the more complicated aspects of the work, those times when restorers had to think on their feet, were less often highlighted.
Mara connected the stream to the viewer. At first, the memory came through like a scratched film reel: a kettle, a wrist, a hand reaching for a rag, images that stuttered and overlapped. The software identified disruptions and silent gaps that needed fixing. She took notes and marked spots that required manual adjustments. In the diagnostic window, the summer smelled faintly of yeast and salt because the machines tried to replicate scents using chemical signatures. The algorithm guessed at the smell of upholstery. She worked through her checklist calmly, like a surgeon.
On the fourth attempt, the memory shifted from data to a real experience. A woman tilted her head in the sunlight, laughed, and showed a little chip in her tooth. The camera focused on the kitchen: blue star-patterned tiles with a small chip, a postcard on a corkboard with a beach scene Mara couldn't recognize, and a hammock shaped like a soft comma. There was a lullaby being hummed softly, wrapping around the everyday actions like folding laundry, pressing an orange peel between the pages of a book, and tucking a child's drawing into a kitchen drawer.
Mara reminded herself to stay detached, like a diver checking equipment. Restorers are taught to observe without getting emotionally involved; being too close to a memory can contaminate it. She adjusted a filter and pulled back some metadata. Still, restoring memories involves both touch and technology. She fixed a mismatch where the sound of rain had fallen out of sync, reconnected the kettle's hiss to the citrus scent, and adjusted the timing of a laugh to make it sound more genuine. Her fingers moved automatically, smoothing out the noise and filling in silences until everything flowed together seamlessly.
Afterward, she leaned back and answered the last question on her checklist: Subjective residue? Yes. It was standard for her to log residue; it happened when you spent too long with a memory. This time, the residue felt strange. She could still taste the orange after rinsing her mouth at the sink, a light, slightly burnt sweetness that wasn't part of her breakfast. She noticed a faint crescent bruise on her forearm from that morning, as if the sun had pressed against it. The lullaby played softly beneath the sounds of the conservatory machines, a melody she couldn't quite shake.
The rulebooks insist that restorers return memories to clients without any influence from their own feelings, relying on logs and documentation to keep things separate. In reality, keeping things separate is challenging. The work demands interpretation; the city expects this as part of the craft. Mara annotated the file, marking the adjustments she made, but, against protocol, she left out a note about how the lullaby had lingered in her mind. She justified it to herself as a matter of efficiency. She didn't tell anyone how the woman in the kitchen had felt like a presence that made the air in the conservatory feel lighter, like a forgotten window had briefly opened to the outside world.
Two hours until pickup. Elias Rhee, collection confirmed. The red priority tab pulsed in the scheduler, urging her to act. Mara carefully placed the orange peel into a clear archival sleeve, sealed it, and put it in a padded packet with the drawing and the salt. She printed the transfer form, watched the software generate the city's signatures, and saw the bureaucracy stamp its approval over someone else's memory.
She washed her hands twice with the city-issued soap, which stripped oil and left a faint chemical taste. Then she arranged the packet on the counter. Outside, Litus buzzed with the rituals of memory exchange: citizens walking with sealed envelopes under their arms, a subway poster showing hands passing light. In public spaces, the Exchange seemed abstract and noble. In the conservatory, it was a series of tasks and small ethical decisions that had to be navigated quietly.
She checked the intake screen again. Elias Rhee, pickup in ninety minutes. She set the timer and inhaled, trying to clear the lingering taste of orange from her throat. The city wants its citizens to connect through shared experiences, to build empathy like a structure. Mara folded her hands, adjusted her voice into the professional tone she had learned, and reminded herself to be precise. When the door clicked open and the hallway filled with the sound of a stranger's footsteps, she would lift the packet and hand over a summer she had made whole, and she wouldn't tell him that for a moment, his warmth had felt like hers.