My knees protest with each step up the rocky path, a familiar complaint after thirty years of this daily climb. I would have told my body to lie still this morning, but my legs would have made the climb without me, I’m sure. Dawn hasn’t quite broken, but I know this trail by heart — every root, every loose stone, every place where the mist gathers thickest.
The collection jars clink in my bag, their glass surfaces worn smooth from decades of use. Regular folks use mason jars for jam or pickles. I use mine for memories.
The morning air is perfect today, heavy with moisture… possibility. I smile, remembering the first time I saw memories float in the mist, tiny stars, waiting to be gathered. This is an old memory, one I haven’t collected. Mine. Out here, they drift up from the town below while everyone sleeps, carrying fragments of dreams, whispers of joy, echoes of grief. At the edge of the forest where the rocks meet the sky, the memories are different. Purer. Untouched.
I pause to catch my breath, my hands gripping my worn walking stick. They ache these days; the joints swollen from years of plucking fragments of souls from the dawn air. I should quit. Give it up. But there’s no one else to do this work. No one else who knows how to separate the golden threads of happy memories from the dark wisps of nightmares, or how to bottle the silvery strands of first kisses and last goodbyes.
The mist parts as I reach my usual spot. The flat rock is worn smooth from countless mornings spent perched here like an old crow. I ease myself down, bones creaking in protest, and begin unpacking my jars. The rising sun catches their curved edges, rainbow prisms cast across my face.
My collection wand — nothing more than a length of copper wire wrapped in silk thread — trembles as I wave it through the thickening air. My grip is not what it used to be. The first memory comes easy, a golden spiral of childhood laughter that coils itself into my jar like honey. The second is a brief flash of puppy love, pink and innocent.
A smile I recognize halts my hand.
The memory trips, stumbles, hangs before me. Most drift past like wisps of smoke, but this one… this one hides itself. With intent. A face emerges from the mist — my face, but not. She’s younger, happier. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of bound tight in my usual braid. She’s standing in a sun-drenched kitchen I’ve never seen, kneading bread dough with flour-dusted hands, while children’s voices echo from another room.
My wand clatters to the rock.
That could have been me.
Should have been me.
But I chose the mist instead.
Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.
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