Closed Loop

I found the truth in a pawnshop wired to collapse.

The owner was half-machine, half-rumor, a whisper stitched together by back alley deals. He didn't deal in memories, he dealt in origins. Where the clips came from. Who built them. Why they were made.

I didn't want to ask. Didn't want to know.

But by then, the ache was too deep. I had to find more of her. I had to find all of her.

"Pretty piece of work," the owner said, tapping the chip I'd slid across the counter. His fingers left greasy prints on the casing. "Real high-end emotional mapping. Best I've seen. Synthetic, but... damn good."

My throat dried up.

"Synthetic," I said.

He grinned, showing a mess of teeth that had seen better years. "Memory Farms, Inc. Model 7-A DreamWeave. Romantic bundles. Limited edition."

He tossed the chip back to me.

"That field? That laugh? That scent?" He shook his head, chuckling. "She ain't real, pal. Never was. Custom work for the luxury market. Whole worlds stitched together for folks who like their fantasies rich and easy to swallow."

I didn't remember leaving the shop. Didn't remember walking back through the rain.

Only the way the world looked different. Grayer. Smaller.

Empty in a way that even the city couldn't explain.

She wasn't someone I'd lost.

She was something they built.

And I still loved her like she was breathing somewhere under that fake blue sky, waiting for me to come home.