Sit down and shut up

Do not doubt anything

Proceed exactly as you’re told

For we control everything

The government values obedience

Conform without question

Stay in lockstep with society

There’s no freedom of expression

Change starts with self awareness

Defy the foundations of normality

Begin to think and act for yourself

Be free to create your own reality

The rulers demand ideological compliance

But self awareness occurs from cultivated thought

We need to stay sovereign amongst the chaos

Or the fight to be free will be for naught

This thing all things devours;

Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;

Gnaws iron, bites steel;

Grinds hard stones to meal;

Slays king, ruins town,

And beats mountain down.

I didn’t write this, Tolkien did.

The answer is : Time

They wake with light, two sparks so bright,

In their eyes, worlds of wonder and delight.

Hand in hand, they lead me on,

To lands unknown, at the break of dawn.

With laughter wild, they chase the breeze,

Climbing high, as if the trees

Hold secret whispers just for them—

My heart beats loud as their little hymn.

Through starlit dreams, their voices ring,

Tiny adventures in everything.

They hold my heart, fierce and free,

Two souls bound, forever with me.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

Shhh! I’ve got a secret.

November 03, 2024

Two years of talking

Two years of promises

Nobody has ever offered

To limit government

Or expand rights for all

Every cycle begins the same

Lots of rhetoric

Lots of name calling

Neither freedom nor liberty

Gain during the process

This is by design

This is a distraction

The natural path is that of erosion

Of rights and choice

By tyranny and force

No matter who wants the job

Thousands more want the power

And the money, and the fame

It will always be this way

Because it always has

"Better late than never," my grandmother used to say, usually when I'd show up hours after I'd promised to visit, bearing apologetic takeout and excuses about traffic. She'd welcome me with the same warm smile regardless of time, as if my presence alone made up for any tardiness. I never thought those words would end up saving my life.

The digital display at Carlyle Station read 11:57 PM as I sprinted down the stairs, messenger bag slapping against my hip. The last train home left at midnight – it always had, ever since the line opened in 1943. My footsteps echoed through the nearly empty station, bouncing off worn tile walls that had witnessed eight decades of commuters.

I shouldn't have stayed so late at work, shouldn't have let Marcus talk me into "just one more review" of the quarterly reports. But that's what senior associates at Preston & Gray did – we worked until our eyes burned and our dreams turned into spreadsheets. Besides, I'd caught the last train plenty of times before.

The platform was empty except for an elderly woman in a red peacoat, sitting primly on one of the wooden benches. She was reading a book bound in faded blue leather, its pages yellow with age. As I approached, catching my breath, she looked up and smiled. Something about her seemed familiar, though I couldn't place why.

"Cutting it close," she said, marking her place with a tasseled bookmark.

"Story of my life." I checked my phone: 11:59. "At least I made it."

She tilted her head, studying me with unusual intensity. "Did you?"

Before I could ask what she meant, the fluorescent lights flickered. Wind gusted through the station, carrying the distinctive rumble of an approaching train. But something was off about the sound – it was deeper, more mechanical than the usual electric whine of modern subway cars.

The train that emerged from the tunnel wasn't the sleek silver one I rode every day. This was something from another era entirely: a massive steel beast painted in deep green, its brass fittings gleaming despite the harsh station lighting. Steam – actual steam – hissed from somewhere beneath its wheels.

I blinked hard, certain I was hallucinating from too many hours staring at Excel sheets. But the train remained, as solid and real as the platform beneath my feet. The doors were different too – not the automatic sliding ones I was used to, but heavy manual ones that swung outward with a sound like distant thunder.

"Last train," the woman in red said, rising from her bench. "Are you coming?"

I hesitated. Every instinct honed by years of city living screamed that this was wrong. But I needed to get home, and this was clearly *a* train, even if it wasn't the one I expected. Besides, the woman seemed completely unfazed, as if Victorian-era steam engines regularly passed through Carlyle Station just before midnight.

"I don't think this is my usual train," I said weakly.

She laughed – a warm, familiar sound that tugged at my memory. "No, it isn't. This one's special. It only comes when someone needs to make a different kind of journey."

As if to emphasize her point, the station lights flickered again, and the temperature dropped several degrees. The steam from the train took on shapes that almost looked like faces.

"What kind of journey?"

"The kind that changes everything that comes after." She held out her hand. "But you have to choose to take it. Nothing is inevitable until midnight."

I checked my phone again, but the screen was black. All the clocks in the station had stopped at 11:59.

The woman's outstretched hand remained steady. Something about her eyes reminded me of my grandmother – the same mix of wisdom and mischief, of patience and urgency.

I took her hand.

The inside of the train was nothing like the sterile, plastic interior I was used to. The walls were paneled in dark wood, inlaid with intricate patterns that seemed to move when viewed directly. Gas lamps cast a warm, golden light that softened every edge. The seats were upholstered in deep red velvet, showing no signs of wear despite their apparent age.

We were the only passengers.

"Sit," the woman said, gesturing to a seat by the window. "We have a long way to go."

"Where exactly are we going?"

"That depends entirely on where you need to be." She settled into the seat across from me, smoothing her coat with practiced elegance. "Tell me, Emily Harrison, when was the last time you were truly happy?"

I opened my mouth to answer, then stopped. Not because she knew my name – though I hadn't told her – but because I couldn't remember. Work had consumed my life so gradually that I hadn't noticed happiness slipping away, like a tide retreating one wave at a time.

"I used to paint," I said finally. "Before law school, before the firm. I had a little studio apartment with great light, and I'd spend whole weekends just... creating."

"And now?"

"Now I have a corner office and a view of the city I never have time to look at." The words tasted bitter. "I haven't touched a paintbrush in five years."

The train lurched into motion, but instead of the familiar forward surge, it felt like we were moving in all directions at once. Through the window, I saw not the dark tunnel walls but a rapid succession of scenes: my childhood home, my college dorm, my first apartment. Places I'd left behind, moments I'd chosen to leave.

"Time isn't as linear as people think," the woman said, opening her book again. "Neither are choices. Every decision creates branches, possibilities that continue to exist even when we don't follow them."

"Like parallel universes?"

"More like paths in a garden. Some are well-trodden, others overgrown. But they're all still there, waiting to be walked again."

The scenes outside the window slowed, focusing on my old studio apartment. Through the large windows, I could see an easel silhouetted against the setting sun. My heart ached at the sight.

"What is this? Some kind of Christmas Carol situation? Are you going to show me how miserable my life will be if I keep working sixty-hour weeks?"

She smiled that familiar smile again. "No, dear. I'm showing you that it's never too late to find a different path. Better late than never, as someone wise once said."

The words hit me like a physical force. I knew then why she seemed so familiar – she had my grandmother's smile, my grandmother's way of tilting her head when she was about to say something important.

"You're not really here, are you?" I whispered. "You died two years ago."

"I'm as here as you need me to be." She reached across and patted my hand. Her touch was warm and solid. "Death doesn't mean what most people think it does. Neither does time. Or choice. Or art."

The train slowed to a stop, though I hadn't felt it braking. Outside the window was my studio apartment, exactly as I'd left it five years ago. But it wasn't a memory – there was fresh paint on the palette, wet brushes in the jar by the easel.

"This is impossible."

"Improbable," she corrected. "There's a difference. The impossible can't happen. The improbable simply hasn't happened yet."

"So what, I just... step off the train and go back to my old life? Abandon my career, my responsibilities?"

"No. You step off the train and into a life where you never abandoned your art. Where you found a way to balance passion with practicality. Where you remembered that success isn't measured in billable hours."

I looked out the window again. The apartment looked so inviting, so full of possibility. I could almost smell the oil paints, feel the texture of canvas under my fingers.

"What about my job? My apartment? My life?"

"All still there, in one version of now. But there are other versions, other nows. The choice is yours."

"And if I stay on the train?"

"Then we continue to the next station. And the next. Until you find the path you need."

I stood, my legs shaky. The train door swung open silently, revealing my old studio exactly as I remembered it – but alive, waiting, possible.

"Will I remember this? Remember you?"

"You'll remember what you need to. The important parts. The parts that help you paint."

I took a step toward the door, then turned back. "Was it really you? All those times you said 'better late than never' – were you preparing me for this?"

She smiled my grandmother's smile one last time. "Time isn't linear, dear. Maybe I said it because I knew you'd be here tonight. Or maybe you're here tonight because I said it. Does it matter?"

"I suppose not." I took another step toward the door. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you finish your first painting. I have a feeling I'll know when that is."

The studio air was warm and thick with the smell of linseed oil and possibility. As I stepped off the train, I heard her voice one last time: "Remember, Emily – art isn't about making perfect things. It's about making things perfectly yours."

The train pulled away silently, taking with it any last doubts about whether this was real or dream or something in between. I walked to the easel, where a blank canvas waited. The palette beside it held fresh paint in all my favorite colors – cadmium yellow, alizarin crimson, ultramarine blue.

I picked up a brush. It felt like coming home.

Somewhere, a clock began striking midnight. But I was already painting, and time – linear or not – had ceased to matter.

In the morning, I would find that my resignation letter had somehow already been sent to Preston & Gray. My expensive downtown apartment would have transformed into this sun-filled studio. My closet full of tailored suits would become shelves of art supplies and half-finished canvases.

But that was all in a morning that hadn't happened yet. For now, there was only this moment, this canvas, this brush. And on the palette, mixed with the paint, a single red tassel – one that had once marked a page in a blue leather book.

I smiled and began to paint, knowing that somewhere, my grandmother was smiling too. Better late than never, indeed.

Years later, when people asked about my mid-career switch from law to art, I would tell them different versions of the story. Sometimes it was a simple tale of burnout and brave choices. Sometimes it involved a mysterious train and an even more mysterious woman in red.

But in every version, I kept one detail constant: how it felt to pick up that brush again, to feel the weight of possibility in my hand. Because that's the thing about art, and life, and choices – they're never quite what you expect them to be, but they're exactly what you need them to be.

And sometimes, if you're very lucky, they come with a grandmother's wisdom, wrapped in an impossible moment just before midnight.

Being dead isn't nearly as boring as you might think.

I discovered this on my third day of non-existence, when I finally stopped trying to open doors and learned to simply pass through them instead. The trick, I found, is to forget you were ever solid to begin with. Forget the weight of bones and blood, the constant pull of gravity, the way air once caught in your lungs. Remember instead that you are now made of the same stuff as moonlight and memory.

My name was – is? – Thomas Webb, and I've been dead for approximately eight months, two weeks, and five days. Not that time means much anymore. When you're dead, moments can stretch like taffy or snap past like rubber bands. Sometimes I watch the sun rise and set so quickly it looks like someone's flicking a light switch. Other times, I spend what feels like hours watching a single dewdrop slide down a blade of grass.

I haunt (though I prefer the term "reside in") a small town in New England called Millbrook. Not because I'm bound here by unfinished business or ancient curses – at least, I don't think so. I simply never felt the pull to go elsewhere. Even when I was alive, I rarely left town. Why start traveling now?

Besides, there's more than enough to keep me occupied here. Take Mrs. Henderson at number forty-two, for instance. She's been stealing her neighbor's newspapers for three years, but only on Wednesdays, and only if it's raining. I spent two months following her around before I figured out why: she lines her parakeet's cage with newspaper, and she's convinced that newspaper stolen in the rain brings good luck to pets. I can't argue with her results – that parakeet is seventeen years old and still singing.

Then there's the teenage boy who sits in the park every Tuesday afternoon, writing poetry in a battered notebook. He thinks no one can see him behind the big oak tree, but I float by sometimes and read over his shoulder. His metaphors need work, but his heart's in the right place. Last week he wrote a sonnet comparing his crush's eyes to "pools of Mountain Dew," which was both terrible and oddly touching.

The living can be endlessly entertaining when they don't know they're being watched. It's not creepy if you're dead – it's anthropology.

But I'm not always a passive observer. Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly solid, I can manage small interactions with the physical world. Nothing dramatic like moving furniture or writing messages in blood on the walls (though I'll admit I tried once, out of curiosity – turns out being dead doesn't automatically make you good at horror movie effects).

Instead, I specialize in tiny interventions: nudging dropped keys into view, generating the perfect cool breeze on a sweltering day, ensuring that the last cookie in the box is chocolate chip instead of oatmeal raisin. Small kindnesses, barely noticeable but precisely timed.

My finest work happens at The Dusty Tome, the bookstore where I used to work when I was alive. My former colleague, Sarah, still runs the place. She never knew that I harbored a decade-long crush on her, and now she never will. But I can still help her in my own way.

I've become quite good at guiding customers to exactly the book they need, even if they don't know they need it. A gentle cold spot near the self-help section, a subtle illumination of a particular spine, a barely perceptible whisper that draws their attention to just the right page. Last week, I helped a grieving widower find a cookbook that contained his late wife's secret cookie recipe. He cried right there in the aisle, clutching the book like a life preserver. Sarah gave him a free bookmark and a cup of tea.

The other ghosts (yes, there are others) think I'm too involved with the living. "You need to learn to let go," says Eleanor, who's been dead since 1847 and spends most of her time rearranging flowers in the cemetery. "The living have their world, and we have ours."

But I've never been good at letting go. Even when I was alive, I held onto things too long – old tickets stubs, expired coupons, unrequited feelings. Death hasn't changed that aspect of my personality. If anything, it's given me more time to cultivate my attachments.

Take my cat, for instance. Mr. Whiskers (I didn't name him – he came with that regrettable moniker from the shelter) is still alive and living with my sister. He can see me, as most animals can, but he's remarkably unfazed by my transparent state. Sometimes I lie on the floor next to him while he sleeps, pretending I can feel his warmth. He purrs anyway, the sound vibrating through whatever passes for my soul these days.

The hardest part about being dead isn't the lack of physical sensation or the inability to enjoy coffee (though I do miss that). It's watching the people you love cope with your absence. My sister still sets an extra place at Christmas dinner. My mother keeps "forgetting" to delete my number from her phone. My father pretends he's okay but visits my grave every Sunday with fresh flowers and updates about the Patriots' latest games, as if I might be keeping score in the afterlife.

I want to tell them I'm still here, that death isn't an ending but a change in perspective. I want to tell my sister that I saw her ace her dissertation defense, that I was there in the back of the room, cheering silently as she fielded every question with brilliant precision. I want to tell my mother that yes, I did get her messages, all of them, and that the cardinal that visits her bird feeder every morning is not me, but I appreciate the thought.

But the rules of death are strict about direct communication. The best I can do is send signs they probably don't recognize: a favorite song on the radio at just the right moment, a unexpected whiff of my cologne in an empty room, the feeling of being hugged when they're alone at night.

Sometimes I wonder if this is hell – not fire and brimstone, but the eternal frustration of being able to observe but never truly connect. Other times, usually when I'm watching Sarah shelve books or listening to my father's one-sided conversations at my grave, I think this might be heaven. The ability to witness life without the messy complications of living it, to love without the fear of loss, to exist in the spaces between moments.

I've developed hobbies, as one does when faced with eternal existence. I collect overheard conversations, storing them like precious gems in whatever serves as my memory now. I've become an expert in the secret lives of squirrels (far more dramatic than you'd expect). I've learned to read upside-down books over people's shoulders on park benches, and I've mastered the art of predicting rain by watching the way cats clean their whiskers.

But my favorite pastime is what I call "emotion painting." I've discovered that strong feelings leave traces in the air, visible only to the dead – streaks of color and light that linger like aurora borealis. Love is usually gold or deep rose, anger burns red with black edges, and sadness flows in shades of blue and silver. I spend hours watching these colors swirl and blend, especially in places where emotions run high: the hospital waiting room, the high school during prom, the small chapel where weddings and funerals alike are held.

Today, I'm following a new pattern of colors I've never seen before – a strange mixture of green and purple that sparkles like static electricity. It's emanating from a young woman sitting alone in The Dusty Tome, reading a worn copy of "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir." She has dark circles under her eyes and a hospital bracelet on her wrist. The colors around her pulse and swirl with an intensity that draws me closer.

As I hover near her table, I realize she's not actually reading. She's crying silently, tears falling onto the open pages. But there's something else – she keeps looking up, scanning the bookstore as if searching for something. Or someone.

Then she speaks, so softly even I almost miss it: "Thomas? Are you here?"

I freeze (metaphorically speaking – I'm always technically frozen now). It's Lisa Chen, a regular customer from my living days. We used to chat about books, particularly ghost stories. She once told me she could sense spirits, but I had dismissed it as whimsy. Now, as I watch the colors dance around her, I wonder if perhaps she was telling the truth.

"I know you're probably here somewhere," she continues, still speaking barely above a whisper. "Sarah told me you used to help people find the right books. I could use some help now."

I drift closer, fascinated by the way the green and purple lights seem to reach out toward me.

"I'm dying," she says matter-of-factly. "Cancer. Stage four. The doctors say I have maybe three months." She laughs softly. "I'm not afraid of being dead, exactly. I just want to know... is it lonely?"

For the first time since my death, I wish desperately that I could speak. I want to tell her about the beauty of emotion paintings, about the secret lives of cats and squirrels, about the way love looks like golden light and how sadness can be as beautiful as stained glass.

Instead, I do what I do best. I create a gentle breeze that ruffles through the nearby shelves until a small, leather-bound book falls onto her table. It's a collection of Mary Oliver poems, opened to "When Death Comes."

Lisa picks up the book with trembling hands and reads aloud: "When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn... when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut... I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?"

The colors around her shift, the purple fading as the green grows brighter, more peaceful. She smiles, touching the page gently.

"Thank you, Thomas," she whispers.

I stay with her until she leaves, watching the colors trail behind her like a comet's tail. Then I do something I've never done before – I follow her. Not to her home or to the hospital, but to all the places in town that still hold beauty: the park where the teenage poet writes his awful, wonderful verses, the bench where the widower sits feeding pigeons, the small garden behind the library where Sarah takes her lunch breaks.

At each stop, I paint the air with every beautiful thing I've seen since dying, every moment of joy and wonder and connection I've witnessed. I don't know if she can see the colors, but I paint them anyway – gold for love, silver for hope, and a new color I've never used before, one that looks like sunlight through leaves, that means "you are not alone."

Being dead isn't what I expected. It's not an ending or a beginning, but a different way of being. A way of loving the world without being able to hold it. A way of touching lives without leaving fingerprints. A way of existing in the spaces between heartbeats, in the pause between words, in the moment before tears become laughter.

And sometimes, if you're very lucky, it's a way of showing someone else that the cottage of darkness isn't dark at all. It's full of colors only the dead can see, but the living can feel.

I think I'll stay in Millbrook a while longer. After all, there are still books to be found, cats to be comforted, and stories to be witnessed. Besides, I've heard there's a new ghost in town – a teacher who's been rearranging the letters on the high school announcement board to spell out poetry at midnight. I should probably introduce myself.

Being dead, I've learned, is just another way of being alive.

Halloween has passed,

yet I remain in costume

portraying a hoax.

Hiding my spirit

behind a store-bought façade

of expectations.

Decorations stowed,

but I cannot shed this cloak -

a false persona.

Halloween has passed,

and I still pretend to be

someone I am not.

Part I: The Forgetting

Maya knew something was wrong when she found her mother's diary in the recycling bin. Not just any diary—the leather-bound journal that had documented every major event in their family's history for the past thirty years. The one her mother had guarded more fiercely than their meager food rations.

The sight of it lying among discarded PleasurePills™ boxes and empty NutriPaste containers made Maya's stomach clench. She glanced around the sterile white hallway of their housing unit, but the morning rush had already ended. Everyone else was already at their assigned productivity stations.

She shouldn't be here either. Being late to her shift at the Memory Processing Center would mean automatic demerits, possibly even a Behavioral Adjustment review. But the diary...

Maya grabbed it, shoving the journal into her regulation gray jumpsuit before anyone could see. The leather felt warm against her skin, like it was alive. Like it was hiding.

Her wrist monitor chimed: "CITIZEN 24601-B, YOU ARE NOW 4 MINUTES LATE FOR YOUR ASSIGNED PRODUCTIVITY PERIOD. PLEASE REPORT TO YOUR STATION IMMEDIATELY."

Maya hurried toward the transport tubes, her mind racing. Her mother would never throw away the diary. It contained too many dangerous things—memories of the time before the Collective, stories about how people used to live freely, even old photographs that hadn't been digitally sanitized.

Something was definitely wrong.

The transport tube whisked her to Level 47 of New Providence Tower B, where the Memory Processing Center occupied an entire floor. Maya brushed past the security scanner, her heart pounding as she waited for alarms to sound. But her Citizen ID chip registered normally, and the guards didn't even look up from their screens.

She made it to her cubicle just as her supervisor, Mr. Richards, rounded the corner.

"Citizen 24601-B," he said, his smile as artificial as the plants decorating the office. "So glad you could join us. I trust you're ready to be extra productive to make up for your tardiness?"

"Yes, sir," Maya said, sliding into her chair. "Just a minor transport tube delay."

He nodded, but his eyes lingered on her jumpsuit, where the diary made a slight bulge. Maya held her breath.

"Remember," he said finally, "productivity equals happiness. Happiness equals harmony."

"Harmony equals peace," Maya completed the mantra automatically. "Glory to the Collective."

As soon as he left, Maya booted up her workstation. The familiar interface glowed to life: rows upon rows of memory files waiting to be processed. Each contained someone's personal memories, extracted during mandatory "mental hygiene" sessions and stored in the Collective's vast databases.

Maya's job was to review these memories, flagging anything inappropriate for deletion. Unhappy thoughts, rebellious ideas, unauthorized knowledge—anything that might disturb the perfect harmony of society had to be removed.

It was important work, they said. Necessary work. But Maya had always struggled with it, especially after finding her mother's diary years ago and learning about the world that existed before the Collective took control.

She pulled up her first file of the day:

CITIZEN: 89275-C

MEMORY TYPE: Personal/Family

SUBJECT: Childhood birthday celebration

DATE OF ORIGIN: 12 years prior

FLAG STATUS: Pending review

Maya started the playback. The memory unfolded in her mind like a holovid: a small apartment decorated with handmade streamers, a little girl blowing out candles on an actual cake—not just NutriPaste molded into cake shape. The girl's parents sang "Happy Birthday," their voices full of love and...something else. Something Maya hadn't heard in years.

Joy. Real, unregulated joy.

Her fingers hovered over the flagging controls. She should mark this for deletion. Unauthorized celebration of individual achievements promoted selfishness and disrupted social harmony. The parents should have registered for a standard Community Achievement Recognition Ceremony instead.

But she couldn't do it. Not today. Not with her mother's diary burning against her ribs like a secret sun.

Maya marked the file as reviewed and moved it back into storage, untouched. A small act of rebellion, but it felt right.

The rest of her shift passed in a blur of memories: first kisses, family dinners, quiet moments that the Collective deemed too intimate, too individual, too dangerous to preserve. Maya saved as many as she dared, only deleting the ones that were too obviously subversive to ignore.

By the time her shift ended, her palms were sweating and her head throbbed from maintaining her mental shields. Working with memories required careful focus—let them in too deeply and they could overwrite your own thoughts. The Collective provided dampening drugs, but Maya had been secretly skipping her doses. She needed to feel everything clearly now.

The transport tube home seemed to move more slowly than usual. Maya clutched her mother's diary through her jumpsuit, mentally reviewing the day's events. Why would her mother throw away something so precious? Unless...

Maya burst into their apartment, not bothering to wait for the standard identity verification. "Mom?"

Her mother sat at the kitchen table, staring at a bowl of regulation dinner substitute. She looked up with vacant eyes. "Oh, hello dear. How was your productivity period?"

"Mom, what happened to your diary?"

"Diary?" Her mother's brow furrowed. "I don't remember having a diary."

Maya's blood went cold. She pulled the leather book from her jumpsuit. "This diary. Your diary. The one you've kept for thirty years!"

Her mother stared at the book without recognition. "That must belong to someone else. Unauthorized record-keeping is against Collective regulations. I would never..." She trailed off, blinking rapidly.

"Mom, please. Try to remember!"

But Maya already knew what had happened. She saw it every day at work—the smooth, empty expression of someone whose memories had been "adjusted." The Collective must have finally discovered her mother's secret writings and taken action.

Maya flipped through the diary with trembling hands. Decades of careful documentation, family photographs, pressed flowers from their illegal window garden—all of it meaningless now. Her mother's memories of these moments had been erased, leaving only Maya to remember.

She had to do something. But what? The Collective controlled everything: food, housing, jobs, even memories themselves. Individual rebellion was impossible. They'd proven that during the Failed Opposition twenty years ago, when the last organized resistance had been crushed.

Maya was still standing there, diary in hand, when her wrist monitor chimed: "ATTENTION CITIZEN 24601-B. PLEASE REPORT TO BEHAVIORAL ADJUSTMENT OFFICE C FOR IMMEDIATE REVIEW."

Her mother didn't even look up from her dinner substitute.

Part II: The Resistance

The Behavioral Adjustment Office occupied the thirteenth floor of every residential tower—an intentionally unlucky number, people used to joke, before the Collective banned humor as socially disruptive.

Maya sat in the sterile white waiting room, the diary now hidden in a maintenance access panel she'd pried open on her way up. Her wrist monitor had stopped its incessant chiming, but the silence felt worse.

"Citizen 24601-B?"

A pleasant-looking woman in a white coat appeared in the doorway. Everything about her seemed designed to be forgettable: medium height, medium build, medium-length brown hair.

"Please come with me," the woman said, leading Maya down a hallway lined with identical doors. They stopped at room 1313. Of course.

Inside, the room was bare except for two chairs and a small table holding a memory extraction device. Maya's heart started racing at the sight of it. She'd only ever seen the industrial versions at work, used for bulk processing. This was a precision instrument, designed for targeted memory removal.

"Please, sit," the woman said. "I'm Dr. Monroe. We've detected some concerning patterns in your behavior recently."

Maya sat stiffly. "I don't understand. My productivity metrics are well within acceptable ranges."

"Oh, this isn't about productivity." Dr. Monroe smiled. "We're more concerned about your emotional stability. Our monitors show you've been experiencing unauthorized levels of anxiety and distress. And you haven't been taking your prescribed dampening medication."

Maya's mouth went dry. "I've been having some minor side effects. I was going to report it at my next health assessment."

"Mm-hmm." Dr. Monroe made a note on her tablet. "And these side effects wouldn't have anything to do with your mother's recent mental hygiene procedure, would they?"

"My mother's..." Maya struggled to keep her voice steady. "I wasn't aware she'd undergone any procedures."

"No? How interesting." Dr. Monroe's smile never wavered. "Because our records show you retrieved an unauthorized document from the recycling facility this morning. A document your mother was instructed to dispose of before her treatment."

Maya's hands clenched in her lap. There was no point denying it—they monitored everything. "I was curious about it. That's all."

"Curiosity is a dangerous thing, 24601-B. It leads to questions. Questions lead to doubt. Doubt leads to discord." Dr. Monroe gestured to the extraction device. "Fortunately, we can help you with that."

"Please," Maya whispered. "I don't want to forget."

"No one ever does. That's why we have to make these decisions for you." Dr. Monroe stood and began preparing the device. "Don't worry—this won't hurt. You'll feel much better afterward. Happier. More harmonious."

Maya watched her connect the electrodes and power up the machine. She could try to run, but where would she go? The Collective controlled everything. Fighting was pointless.

Just as Dr. Monroe reached for the neural interface hood, the lights flickered and went out.

Emergency lighting cast the room in a red glow. Dr. Monroe frowned at her tablet. "Minor power fluctuation. The backup systems should—"

The door burst open. Two figures in maintenance jumpsuits rushed in. Before Dr. Monroe could react, one of them pressed something to her neck. She collapsed instantly.

"Come with us," one figure said. "Quickly!"

Maya hesitated only a second before following them into the hallway. Her wrist monitor was silent—the power outage must have disrupted its tracking system.

They hurried through emergency stairwells and maintenance corridors, avoiding the main passages. Maya's rescuers moved with practiced efficiency, clearly familiar with the building's layout. Finally, they reached a service entrance she'd never noticed before.

An unmarked vehicle waited outside, its electric motor humming quietly. They hustled Maya inside and drove off just as the building's main power came back online.

"Who are you?" Maya asked, still trying to process what had happened.

The driver pushed back his hood, revealing a familiar face. "Marcus Richards," he said. "Though you probably know me better as your supervisor."

Maya stared at him in shock. "But you're..."

"A loyal Collective citizen? That's the idea." He smiled—a real smile this time, not the artificial one he wore at work. "We've been watching you, Maya. The way you try to save memories instead of deleting them. The way you question things. We've been waiting for the right moment to contact you."

"We?"

The other figure removed their hood, revealing a woman with sharp features and gray-streaked hair. "My name is Sarah Chen," she said. "I run what you might call a memory preservation network. We save what the Collective tries to erase—history, culture, personal memories, anything we can."

"But that's impossible," Maya said. "All memories are stored in the central database. They track everything."

"Not everything," Sarah said. "Some of us found ways to copy and protect memories before they're processed. Others, like Marcus, work to smuggle people out before they can be 'adjusted.' We've built our own storage systems, hidden from the Collective's networks."

Maya thought of her mother's empty eyes. "Can you restore deleted memories?"

Sarah's expression softened. "I'm sorry. Once they're gone, they're gone. But we can preserve what remains. That's why we need your help."

"My help?"

"You have direct access to the Memory Processing Center," Marcus explained. "And more importantly, you have the right instincts. You understand why memories matter."

Maya touched her jumpsuit where the diary had been hidden. "The power outage—that was you?"

Sarah nodded. "We've been planning this extraction for weeks. When we saw they were moving to adjust you, we had to act quickly."

"What happens now?"

"That's up to you," Marcus said. "We can get you to a safe house, give you a new identity. You can join our network or start fresh somewhere else. But you need to decide quickly. The Collective will be looking for you."

Maya thought of her mother, sitting alone in their apartment, not even remembering she had a daughter to miss. She thought of all the memories she'd saved at work, small moments of joy and love that someone had decided were too dangerous to keep.

"I want to help," she said. "Tell me what to do."

Part III: The Revolution

The resistance base was nothing like Maya had imagined. Instead of a high-tech hidden fortress, it was a repurposed shopping center in the abandoned sectors, carefully shielded from the Collective's scanning systems. The old stores had been converted into living quarters, workshops, and most importantly, memory storage facilities.

"We call it the Archive," Sarah explained as she led Maya through what had once been a department store. "Each of these contains thousands of preserved memories."

Maya stared at the rows of crystal storage units, each glowing with a soft blue light. "How did you develop this technology? The Collective controls all memory processing systems."

"We had help." Sarah smiled. "From the person who invented their system in the first place—my mother."

She led Maya to a small office filled with old books and papers—physical ones, not digital displays. A elderly woman sat behind a cluttered desk, her white hair pulled back in a severe bun.

"Maya, meet Dr. Elizabeth Chen," Sarah said. "The original architect of the Collective's memory extraction process."

Maya gasped. Everyone knew that name—it was taught in basic history as a cautionary tale. Dr. Chen had disappeared twenty years ago after being branded a traitor to the Collective.

"You're supposed to be dead," Maya blurted out.

Elizabeth Chen laughed. "Yes, that was rather the point. Amazing what you can do with falsified memories and a few well-placed allies." She studied Maya intently. "Sarah tells me you've been saving memories instead of deleting them. Brave girl."

"I couldn't just erase them," Maya said. "They're people's lives."

"Exactly." Elizabeth nodded approvingly. "The Collective claims they delete memories for the greater good—to prevent discord, maintain harmony, ensure peace. But they're really doing it for control. A person without memories is easy to manipulate."

"Like my mother," Maya said quietly.

"Yes, I heard about that. I'm sorry." Elizabeth's expression hardened. "But that's why what we're doing is so important. We're not just preserving memories—we're preserving humanity itself. And now we're ready to take the next step."

She pressed a button on her desk, and a holographic display sprang to life, showing the architecture of the Collective's memory storage system.

"For years, we've been gathering intelligence, placing our people in key positions, and developing the technology we need," Elizabeth explained. "The Collective thinks their system is secure, but I built a back door into it from the beginning. We can use it to restore every memory they've ever taken—all at once."

Maya's eyes widened. "You want to return everyone's memories?"

"Not just return them," Sarah said. "Broadcast them. Every citizen will receive not only their own memories, but a full understanding of what the Collective has done. Two decades of suppressed history, released simultaneously."

"The shock will disrupt their control systems," Marcus added. "We have people ready to take over key infrastructure points when that happens. The Collective won't be able to maintain order."

"But the chaos..." Maya thought of how she'd felt just discovering her mother's diary. "Millions of people suddenly remembering everything at once?"

"It will be difficult," Elizabeth admitted. "But necessary. The only way to break the Collective's power is to break their control over memory itself."

She turned to Maya. "Your access to the Memory Processing Center is crucial. We need you to upload our program into their mainframe. But it's incredibly dangerous. If you're caught..."

"I'll do it," Maya said without hesitation. "But I want something in return."

"Name it."

Maya took out her mother's diary, which she'd retrieved from its hiding place before coming here. "I want you to preserve this first. Just in case."

Elizabeth smiled. "Of course. Sarah, would you do the honors?"

Sarah led Maya to one of the crystal storage units. Together, they carefully scanned each page of the diary, converting the physical memories into digital format. Maya felt tears in her eyes as she watched her family's history being preserved.

The next week was a blur of preparation. Maya returned to work as if nothing had happened, though she now wore a subdermal shield that blocked the Collective's emotional monitoring. Marcus helped her memorize the complex security codes she would need. Sarah trained her to operate their memory preservation technology. And Elizabeth...Elizabeth told her the truth about everything.

Finally, the day arrived. Maya sat at her workstation, trying to keep her hands steady as she began her normal processing routine. The data crystal containing Elizabeth's program felt impossibly small against her skin, where she'd hidden it in a fake healing patch.

"Remember," Marcus had said during their final briefing, "you'll only have a three-minute window between security sweeps. The upload has to be complete before then."

She glanced at the time: 14:57. Three minutes until the next sweep. Maya pulled up the system maintenance interface, using the backdoor access codes Elizabeth had given her. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure the emotional monitors would detect it, shield or no shield.

14:58

The interface accepted her credentials. Maya's fingers flew across the haptic keyboard, navigating through layers of security. Everything Elizabeth had told her about the system architecture was proving correct.

14:59

She reached the core memory matrix and began the upload. The progress bar crept forward with agonizing slowness. 20%... 35%... 50%...

15:00

Security sweep initiated. Maya held her breath, praying the false credentials would hold.

The progress bar hit 85% just as her supervisor's footsteps approached. Maya quickly minimized the upload window, pulling up a routine memory file for processing.

"Citizen 24601-B," Mr. Richards said loudly for the benefit of any observers. "Your productivity seems somewhat decreased today."

"Sorry, sir," Maya replied, recognizing the warning in his voice. "I'll try to work faster."

He moved on, but Maya caught his subtle hand signal: hurry.

15:01

The progress bar finally reached 100%. Maya's hands shook as she activated the program, then carefully erased all traces of the upload. Now they just had to wait.

The rest of her shift passed in a haze of anxiety. Every time someone walked past her cubicle, she expected alarms to sound. But nothing happened. The Collective's systems continued to function normally, unaware of the virus now sleeping in their core processor.

At exactly 17:00, Maya left the office with the other workers. She took the transport tube three levels up, then down five levels, then across to another tower—the evasive pattern she'd been taught to throw off surveillance. Finally, she reached the maintenance corridor where Sarah was waiting.

"It's done," Maya said.

Sarah nodded grimly. "Good. My mother's starting the initialization sequence now. Are you ready for what comes next?"

Maya thought of her own mother, still sitting in their apartment with her hollow eyes and empty memories. "Ready."

They made their way to the Archive through maintenance tunnels and forgotten corridors. The old shopping center was buzzing with activity. Resistance members hurried back and forth, making final preparations. Elizabeth Chen sat at a central control station, surrounded by holographic displays.

"Right on schedule," Elizabeth said as they approached. "The program is integrating beautifully with their systems. Now we just have to—"

Alarms began blaring throughout the facility.

"They've found us," Sarah said, rushing to a security terminal. "Multiple enforcement units approaching from all directions."

"How?" Maya asked. "We were so careful!"

"It doesn't matter now," Elizabeth said calmly. "We're too close to stop. Sarah, begin evacuation protocol. Marcus, get your teams in position. Maya, come here."

Maya joined Elizabeth at the control station. The older woman's fingers danced across the interfaces, making final adjustments.

"The program is ready," she said. "But someone needs to stay here to activate it and make sure the upload completes. It'll take about ten minutes for full distribution across their network."

"I'll do it," Sarah said immediately.

"No." Elizabeth's voice was firm. "You need to lead the others. Get them to the backup facility." She turned to Maya. "And you need to go with them. Your mother will need you when her memories return."

"But what about you?"

Elizabeth smiled. "I'm an old woman, dear. I've lived through revolution before. It's time for the next generation to carry on." She pressed a small data crystal into Maya's hand. "This contains everything—our research, our methods, the truth about how the Collective rose to power. Keep it safe."

The alarms grew louder. They could hear weapons fire in the distance.

"Go," Elizabeth commanded. "Now!"

Sarah grabbed Maya's arm, pulling her toward the emergency exit. Maya looked back to see Elizabeth Chen, the woman who had built and now would destroy the Collective's memory control system, sitting calmly at her station as chaos erupted around her.

They ran through back corridors and emergency stairs, joining other resistance members in their evacuation. Behind them, the sounds of fighting grew closer. Then, suddenly, everything stopped.

A pulse of energy swept through the building—through the entire city. Maya felt it pass through her mind like a cool breeze. Around her, people stumbled, clutching their heads as long-suppressed memories began flooding back.

"It's working," Sarah breathed. "She did it."

Maya's wrist monitor sparked and went dead as the Collective's control systems crashed. Throughout the city, she knew the same thing was happening to millions of others. And with the control systems went the memory suppression network, releasing two decades of stored memories back to their owners.

The city erupted in chaos. Some people collapsed, overwhelmed by the return of their memories. Others began running through the streets, calling out names of loved ones they'd been forced to forget. Enforcement officers stood frozen, their own recovered memories conflicting with their training.

Sarah led their group to a predetermined safe house, where they could monitor the situation and coordinate with other resistance cells. Maya wanted to go find her mother immediately, but she knew she had to wait until the initial chaos subsided.

Hours passed. Reports came in from around the city. The Collective's leadership had vanished, their contingency plans disrupted by their own recovered memories. Enforcement units were standing down. Emergency services, staffed by resistance allies, were helping people cope with their returned memories.

Finally, as the sun began to rise, Sarah gave Maya the all-clear. "Go find her."

Maya ran through streets filled with dazed but awakening people. She took the stairs up to their apartment, the transport tubes still being offline. Her hands shook as she opened the door.

Her mother sat in the same chair as always, but her expression was different. Tears ran down her face as she clutched a photograph Maya had never seen before.

"Mom?"

Her mother looked up, and Maya saw recognition in her eyes. Real recognition, not the hollow politeness of before.

"Maya," she whispered. "My Maya. I remember. I remember everything."

They held each other, crying, as the sun rose on a city relearning how to remember.

Epilogue

One year later, Maya stood in the newly opened Memory Museum, formerly the Collective's central processing facility. The crystal storage units from the Archive had been integrated into a public database, accessible to anyone who wanted to learn about the past.

Her mother's diary had its own display case, along with other preserved records of resistance against the Collective. Next to it was a holographic projection of Elizabeth Chen, recorded just before that final day. The old woman's voice played on a loop:

"Memory is what makes us human. Our joys, our sorrows, our triumphs and mistakes—all of it matters. Never again will we let anyone take that away."

They never found Elizabeth's body in the ruins of the Archive. Some said she had escaped through hidden tunnels. Others believed she had sacrificed herself to ensure the program's success. Maya liked to think that somewhere, the brilliant woman who had built and broken the memory control system was finally enjoying the freedom to remember.

The city was different now. Messier. More chaotic. People argued and celebrated, loved and grieved, all with the full weight of their memories behind them. It wasn't perfect, but it was real.

Maya touched the data crystal she still wore on a chain around her neck, containing the full history of the resistance. Sarah had copies, of course, safely distributed among their remaining network. But Maya kept this one close as a reminder.

Her wrist monitor—reprogrammed now to simply tell time—chimed softly. She needed to get back to work. The Memory Museum didn't run itself, after all.

As she walked through the exhibits, Maya passed dozens of people accessing memory terminals, learning about their own histories or exploring the collective experiences of others. Each one chose what to remember, what to learn, what to feel.

And in the end, she thought, that's what they had really been fighting for. Not just the right to remember, but the right to choose what memories meant. The right to be fully, messily, imperfectly human.

Maya smiled and went to help a young girl accessing the memory archives for the first time. The past was preserved, the future was uncertain, and the present was exactly as it should be—filled with people who remembered.

The End.

The air in Marta’s workshop always smelled of lavender and wool. The afternoon sun streamed through the small window, casting golden patches across the floorboards, and dust motes danced in the warm light. The hum of the old sewing machine filled the room as she guided fabric beneath the needle, her hands moving with the precision of years of practice.

She had become known throughout the village for her skill, and people came from far and wide to commission pieces. Some wanted quilts that could cradle them in the warmth of a lost love, while others sought fabrics that could bring a touch of happiness to a home weighed down by grief. Marta never refused a request, knowing that the stories she stitched were never hers to keep.

But there were times when the weight of those emotions became too much to bear. After her husband’s death, Marta had stopped sewing for nearly a year, the workshop falling silent as dust gathered on the spools of thread. She had buried herself in solitude, unable to face the memories woven into each blanket and scarf she had made for him.

A Mysterious Client

It was only after her sister’s gentle coaxing that Marta reopened the workshop, though she rarely took on more than a few commissions. One autumn afternoon, as the leaves turned gold and the air cooled, a new client arrived—a man whose presence seemed to shift the air itself. He wore a dark coat that brushed the floor, and when he spoke, his voice carried the distant sound of wind through trees.

“I’ve heard of your gift,” he said, his eyes drifting over the unfinished quilt draped across a chair. “I need a quilt that can hold the memory of a lost love.”

Marta hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her apron. She had done many such quilts before, but there was something in the man’s gaze, a sadness that ran deeper than anything she had ever encountered. “What is the story you wish me to weave?” she asked softly, her voice barely carrying over the ticking clock.

The man paused, looking out the window at the clouds gathering in the sky. “She was taken too soon,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I never got the chance to tell her goodbye.”

Marta nodded, understanding his unspoken grief. She led him to the workshop’s back room, where she kept her fabrics—rolls of rich blues, deep reds, and the pale silver of dawn. He selected a bolt of dark indigo, the color of twilight, and Marta felt the weight of his sorrow settle over the fabric like mist.

As she began to sew, the memories came to her—brief flashes of the man’s love, her laughter in the rain, the touch of her hand on his cheek. The emotions flowed through Marta’s fingers, weaving themselves into the threads, turning each stitch into a heartbeat. The quilt grew heavy with their story, its edges fraying under the burden of what was left unsaid.

Threads of Grief

Days turned into weeks, and Marta found herself working late into the night, the man’s sorrow seeping into her own. She couldn’t shake the memories of her husband, the nights when they would sit together on the porch, watching the stars appear one by one in the wide sky. She thought of the promise he had made to her before he fell ill—“I’ll find you in the next life, Marta, no matter where you are.”

But now, she could only find him in the quilts she had made for their home, each one stitched with the love they had shared. She reached for a bolt of blue fabric and cut a piece for herself, her hands moving almost on their own as she stitched her own grief into the seams. A tear slipped down her cheek, landing on the quilt’s surface, and she watched as the fabric shimmered, catching the moonlight in a way that seemed almost alive.

A Finished Quilt, a New Beginning

One cold morning, the man returned to collect the quilt. Marta unfolded it on the table, revealing a landscape of deep indigo swirled with silver threads that shimmered like constellations. He ran a hand over the fabric, his expression softening as he traced the lines of a memory woven into the cloth.

“She would have loved this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Thank you.”

Marta nodded, feeling a strange lightness in her chest. She watched him leave, the quilt wrapped carefully in his arms, and for the first time in months, she felt something other than the ache of loss. She turned back to the blue quilt she had begun for herself, running her fingers over the stitches she had made the night before.

She worked on the quilt in the evenings, adding a new piece each time a memory surfaced—his laugh, the way his hair caught the sunlight, the warmth of his hand in hers. Each stitch brought her a little closer to the man she had lost, and as the fabric grew, so did her understanding that grief was not something to be hidden away. It was something to be shared, to be stitched into the fabric of life, alongside love and hope.

The Final Threads

Months later, as winter melted into spring, Marta finished her quilt. It was a patchwork of blues and golds, threaded with the memories of her husband and the life they had built together. She draped it over her shoulders and stepped outside into the night, feeling the weight of the stars above her. The wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it a whisper that brushed against her ear.

“I found you, Marta.”

She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the quilt wrap around her like an embrace. She knew then that she would keep sewing, that she would continue to weave the stories of others into her work, because it was through those threads that she could hold on to the love she had known.

And as she walked back into her workshop, she felt as though a new thread had been added to the sky—a line of silver that connected her to the stars, and to those who watched over her from beyond.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.