Dystopia
Vaguely, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he could still see a blue sky. It wasn’t the kind of memory he could think of simply by closing his eyes and trying; rather, it came to him on the rare occasion, in a dream, in the unsettling feeling of deja vu or a forgotten longing, in the depth of another's eyes. On the nights when he slept he saw it clearly, and lost it the moment he woke. If he had been asked whether he had ever seen it, he would have replied, no, he hadn’t, of course he hadn’t, the blue sky was just a fantasy. Someone invented it to give themselves hope.
But still, he couldn't let it go. He needed something, something that belonged to him and no one else, something that could not be taken. They didn't know he remembered the sky. He would never tell.
It was his.