The Foundry runs on other people's joy. All night the machines hum, pulling the happiest hour out of each seller. By dawn the canisters land on Mara's desk, warm and faintly glowing. Her job is simple: scan, log, shelve, forget. She's done it for six years. Tonight a canister rolls down the chute with a name printed on the side. Her name. Mara Vance.

Mara takes the canister straight to her supervisor, Dell, who runs the night floor. She sets it on his desk. 'This has my name on it,' she says. 'I never sold a memory.' Dell looks at it for a long moment, then quietly closes his office door.

Dell sits Mara down and tells her the truth, low and tired. Years ago she sold her own memories, willingly, to pay off a debt that would have ruined her. She signed away the right to remember signing it. 'You ask me this every few years,' he says gently. 'And every time, I have to tell you again.'

Mara asks the question she always asks: 'Can I buy them back?' Dell shakes his head. The debt is paid, but the memories belong to the Foundry now, to sell as they like. This hour on her desk was a buyer's return. Mara takes it home, plays it once, and for one borrowed hour remembers the life she sold. Then she lets it fade, like always, and goes back to work.