Emma should have been in class.
Instead, she sat in a corner booth at Rousseau's, hands
wrapped around a cup of coffee she hadn't touched. The
café was nearly empty this time of day. Outside,
students in uniform hurried past on their way to school.
She should have been one of them.
But her conscience was heavy with the knowledge of
taking someone's memory.
Her fingers trembled as she pressed them against her
ribs, half-expecting to feel the bruises from someone
else's pain. The memory she'd taken-the one she never
meant to absorb-lingered too vividly. A sharp impact.
The snap of bone. The sickening lurch of losing control
behind the wheel. A flash of headlights before
everything went dark.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Not mine. Not mine.
But it didn't matter. She felt it anyway.
She needed answers.
The bell above the door chimed. Emma barely glanced
up. Just another customer. The few people in the caféan elderly man reading the newspaper, a barista wiping
down the counter-didn't pay any attention either.
Then someone slid into the seat across from her.
A shiver ran down her spine.
The man was older, maybe mid-twenties, with dark eyes
that held something sharp beneath their calm surface.
He wore a thick black jacket, zipped up despite the
warmth inside. The way he moved smooth and deliberate, sent a warning signal through her gut.
"You don't remember me, do you?"
Emma's fingers tightened around her cup. Was she
supposed to remember him? Had she taken something
else-something important?
She forced herself to stay calm. "Should I?"
The man studied her for a moment, then leaned forward,
his voice just above a whisper.
"You have something of mine. A memory. And I need it
back."
Emma's breath caught in her throat.
She willed herself to stay still, not to bolt, not to let him
see the panic crawling under her skin.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said
carefully.
The man gave her a slow, knowing smile. "Lying won't
help. I know what you can do."
Emma's stomach flipped. No. That wasn't possible. No
one knew.
She kept her expression blank. "And what exactly is it
you think I can do?"
The man exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if she
was wasting his time. He reached into his jacket, and
Emma's body went rigid. A knife? A gun? She was
already planning the quickest escape route when he
pulled out–not a weapon but a small, tattered
notebook.
He slid it across the table. "Have a look."
Emma hesitated, "I'm not gonna kidnap you, if that's
what you're thinking, the man chuckled.
Her curiosity outweighed her fear so she opened it.
The first page held only a name: Dave Hathaway.
She didn't recognize it. But the next page made her
blood turn to ice.
It was a sketch of her face.
Emma snapped the notebook shut. "What is this?"
"You took something from me," Dave said, his voice
quieter now, more controlled. "Something I need back."
Emma's heartbeat pounded in her ears. She never took
memories on purpose. They just...happened. A touch. A
moment of too much emotion. And suddenly, pieces of
people's pictures that she never knew of were tangled up in her mind.
"I don't know how to give it back," she admitted, barely
above a whisper.
Dave's jaw tightened. "Come on, try".
Emma shook her head. "Even if I could, I don't even
know what I took."
Dave exhaled, rather impatiently, dragging a hand
through his hair. He looked...tired. Desperate. The
sharpness in his eyes hadn't dulled, but there was
something else there now–something like fear.
"You took the last thing I remember before I woke up in
the hospital," he said. "And I think someone tried to kill
me."
Emma felt like the air had been knocked from her lungs.
"I-" She stammered. "I don't-"
Dave leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the
table. "You're the only lead I have. If you don't help me, I
won't ever know what happened."
Emma swallowed hard. The weight of his words settled
in her chest. If she had his memory–if she had the
missing piece of whatever had happened to him–then
she was part of this now. Whether she wanted to be or
not.
The café suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in.
She could say no. Walk away. Go back to school and
pretend none of this was happening.
But she already knew she wouldn't.
Because that memory, the one she hadn't been able to
shake, the one that felt like dying–was his.
And if she didn't help him...
She might never escape it.