Mnemosyne's shop was a strange one indeed.
The sign in her window read: open for those who have forgotten, or for those who wish to know.
Some said she was a crazy fortuneteller, while others whispered amongst the street that she had a very peculiar method of payment.
One thing was certain though, she was magnificent at her job, even if her customer were too confused to tell you.
That's not to say, however, that her work was for everyone, for many would be turned off by the mess of the place.
Old books with yellow aged paper were stacked haphazardly and most would have to maneuver their way through the mess to get to the table where she usually sat her customers down.
"Before we begin, I'll need payment." Mnemosyne said one night as she studied the woman in front of her.
She looked rather worried, as most of her costumers did before beginning. Her hair was slightly damp from the small drizzle that began before she entered the shop and she nervously tried to fix its appearance.
"Oh," the woman said softly and began to search for her wallet in her purse. "Of course."
"Not that sort of payment." Mnemosyne said as she stopped her by placing an empty glass jar on the table, her grey eyes glinting peculiarly.
"Tell me a story."
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Mnemosyne watched the woman leave, disappointment clear in her grey eyes.
They always chose to forget.
Sighing, she pulled back the curtain to her stock room and stared at her collection adoringly. Carefully she pushed the jar into place on the shelf. What once was empty was now filled with a cloud like substance, churning slowly within in the jar.
The color was a vivid crimson, a memory fresh and still haunting.
Her eyes lifted to gaze at the many shelves that were completely filled with similar jars, but all of their own special hue.
She had a vast collection, a millennium worth's. But she couldn't stop, she never had enough.
It was her job, anyway.
The only thing that had keep her sane through the many years.
She had documented tirelessly every significant event since the beginning of life; but she found it was much more exhilarating to document the lives of the insignificant people. The people who would never grace the pages of the history book pages. The memories and stories that would normally die with them were preserved in her collection, floating in wondrous colors in her glass jars, and she took great comfort in being their guardian.
After all the years she had lived, she never believed she would ever tire of their colorful display.
She remembered when she use to feel in colors, but time and sorrow had left her eyes faded. A cold and tired grey compared to the striking blue they once were.
Now she could only see the radiant world through shades of grey.
These memories were all she had to see again, to feel again.
