Turning Point 13
The speakeasy’s air thickened with the smell of rust and regret. Lira’s fingers stopped tracing the door-table’s grain when Sol slid the glass closer. The memory-water caught the dim light, swirling with fragments of lives she didn’t own—a child’s birthday party, a dog running through a field, a woman laughing.
“I’m not drinking that,” she said.
Sol shrugged, his face a map of wrinkles that deepened when he smiled. “Your loss. It’s good stuff. A man sold me his first kiss for twenty ticks last week. Tasted like cherries and rain.”
Lira pushed the glass away. “I’ve lost enough memories without swallowing strangers’.”
The basement door groaned open. Lira’s hand went to the spray can in her coat pocket, but Sol raised a palm. “Easy. He’s with me.”
Kael descended the stairs, his clockwork implant ticking a steady rhythm that echoed off the boiler room walls. He moved like a man carrying a weight he couldn’t set down—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, eyes scanning every shadow. He stopped at the table, pulled out a chair, and sat without asking.
“You’re still alive,” he said to Lira.
“Disappointed?”
“Relieved.” He looked at Sol. “Dox is sweeping the Dregs. She’s got a list of every memory trader in the district. You’re on it.”
Sol’s smile didn’t waver. “I’ve been on lists before. Lists don’t kill you—people do.”
Kael’s gaze shifted to Lira. “The mural on the clock-tower. How close are you?”
“Close enough that Vane’s shaking.” She leaned back, the chair creaking. “Ninety percent. Maybe more. The tower’s hum is off-key now. People in the Dregs feel it—their tickers are slowing.”
“Then you’re running out of time.”
“I’m running out of memories.” She tapped her temple. “Every stroke costs me something. I forgot my favorite color yesterday. I stared at a wall for an hour trying to remember if it was blue or green.”
Kael’s hand moved to his chest, where his implant pulsed beneath his shirt. “I know what that’s like. Waking up with nothing. No past, no name, just a dossier and a countdown.”
Sol poured himself a glass of memory-water. “You two are a pair of broken clocks. One losing time, one losing memory. The universe has a sick sense of humor.”
Lira ignored him. She studied Kael’s face—the hard lines around his mouth, the shadows under his eyes, the way his fingers twitched toward his blade even when he was sitting still. “The woman in the mirror. You said you didn’t recognize her.”
“I don’t.”
“But you think she’s your sister.”
He nodded, slow and deliberate. “The dossier Vane gave me said I had no family. No records. No past. But when you painted that reflection, I felt something. A pull. Like I’d seen her face before, in a dream I couldn’t remember.”
Lira reached into her coat and pulled out a small sketchbook—the one she used to track what she’d lost. She flipped through pages of half-finished drawings, notes in her own handwriting that she didn’t recognize. “I can try to paint her again. A proper portrait. Not a reflection—something stable.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“Everything costs me.” She found a blank page. “But I’ve got a few memories left that I don’t need. The taste of burnt coffee. The sound of a train horn at midnight. Small things.”
Sol leaned forward. “You sure about this, girl? Every memory you burn is a piece of you gone. You don’t get them back.”
Lira met his eyes. “I know.”
She set the sketchbook on the table and opened a small tin of paint she’d mixed earlier—a deep, warm brown that reminded her of something she couldn’t name. She dipped her finger into the paint and began to draw.
The woman took shape slowly. High cheekbones. Dark hair pulled back in a loose braid. A small scar above her left eyebrow. Kael watched, his breath shallow, his hands gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles went white.
“Her eyes,” he said. “They’re lighter. Like honey.”
Lira adjusted the shade, blending a touch of yellow into the brown. “Like this?”
“Yes.”
She kept painting. The woman’s mouth curved into a faint smile. Her shoulders relaxed. She looked kind—the kind of face that belonged in a kitchen, laughing over a cup of tea, not in a Syndicate dossier or a forgotten memory.
When Lira finished, she sat back. The portrait glowed faintly, the paint still wet and alive. The woman’s eyes blinked.
Kael’s breath caught. “She moved.”
“The paint stabilizes when it connects to something real.” Lira wiped her finger on her pants. “Your memory of her—it’s strong. The paint’s holding it.”
The woman in the portrait smiled wider. Her lips parted, and a sound came out—soft, like wind through leaves. A laugh.
Kael’s face crumpled. He pressed a hand to his mouth, his shoulders shaking. Tears ran down his cheeks, cutting tracks through the grime on his skin. “I remember her laugh. I didn’t know I remembered it until now.”
Lira watched him. She felt a hollow ache in her chest—not from the memory she’d lost, but from the one she’d given him. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know her name.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “But she’s my sister. I know it. She used to braid my hair when I was small. She’d sing to me when I couldn’t sleep.”
“What did she sing?”
He closed his eyes. “I don’t remember the words. Just the tune. It was low and slow, like a lullaby.”
Lira looked at the portrait. The woman’s smile was steady now, frozen in the moment of laughter. “She loved you.”
“I know.” Kael’s voice cracked. “And I forgot her. The Syndicate took her from me. They took everything.”
Sol refilled his glass. “That’s what they do. They don’t just steal time—they steal who you are. Strip you down until you’re a blank slate they can write on.”
Kael’s hand moved to his implant. “This thing counts down my borrowed time. Every tick is a day I shouldn’t have. I’ve been alive for eight years, and I don’t remember a single one before that.”
Lira closed the sketchbook. “What would you do if you got your memories back?”
“Find her.” He looked at the portrait. “Find my sister. Tell her I’m sorry.”
“You don’t know if she’s still alive.”
“I don’t care. I need to know.”
The basement fell silent. The pipes dripped. The memory-water swirled in Sol’s glass. Lira felt the weight of her own missing memories pressing against her skull—a hundred small deaths she’d chosen, each one a price she’d paid for the mural.
“I’m running out of room,” she said quietly. “The journal’s half-empty. I don’t remember my first kiss. I don’t remember my father’s voice. I don’t remember the name of my best friend.”
Kael looked at her. “Why do you keep going?”
“Because if I stop, the tower wins. Vane wins. Everyone in this city dies young, and no one remembers what they lost.” She touched the portrait. “I’d rather forget everything than let that happen.”
Sol set down his glass. “You’re a fool, girl. A noble fool, but a fool nonetheless.”
“I know.”
Kael reached across the table and took her hand. His palm was rough, calloused from years of gripping blades. “When this is over—if we survive—I’ll help you remember. I’ll tell you everything I know about you. We’ll piece it together.”
Lira pulled her hand back. “You won’t remember me. By the time the mural’s done, I won’t remember you.”
“Then I’ll remind you.”
“You can’t remind someone of nothing.”
He held her gaze. “I’ll try.”
The portrait on the table flickered. The woman’s smile dimmed, then brightened again. Lira felt a sharp pain behind her eyes—a memory slipping away. She closed her eyes and let it go.
When she opened them, she didn’t know what color the sky was. She didn’t know if she’d ever seen a sunrise. But she knew the weight of the spray can in her pocket, and she knew the face of a woman who might be Kael’s sister.
“I forgot my favorite color,” she said. “It was blue. I think.”
Kael shook his head. “It was green. You told me earlier.”
“I don’t remember telling you.”
“You did. In the flooded station. You said green reminded you of leaves after rain.”
Lira stared at him. “I don’t remember that.”
“I do.” He tapped his temple. “I’ll hold it for you. Until you can hold it yourself.”
Sol stood up, his joints popping. “You two are making me sentimental. I hate that.” He walked to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of clear liquid. “This is the real stuff. No memories in it—just alcohol. Drink it. You’ll need your wits for tomorrow.”
Lira took the bottle. She didn’t drink. She held it, feeling the cool glass against her palm, and thought about all the things she’d never know.
The portrait of Kael’s sister sat on the table, glowing faintly. The woman’s smile was frozen, but her eyes seemed to follow Lira—warm, knowing, forgiving.
“She would have liked you,” Kael said.
Lira looked at him. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He pointed at the portrait. “She’s smiling. She never smiled for anyone she didn’t trust.”
Lira didn’t answer. She picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink. The alcohol burned going down, but it didn’t wash away the hollow feeling in her chest.
She set the bottle down. “Tomorrow night. The final stroke.”
Kael nodded. “I’ll be there.”
“You might die.”
“I know.”
“I might forget you before you hit the ground.”
He smiled—a small, sad thing. “Then I’ll die twice. Once in the body, once in your memory.”
Lira looked at the portrait again. The woman’s smile hadn’t faded. It was the only thing in the room that felt permanent.
She closed the sketchbook and stood up. “I need to finish the mural. The tower’s waiting.”
Kael stood with her. “I’ll walk you to the edge of the Dregs.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
They left Sol in the basement, pouring himself another glass of memory-water. The door groaned shut behind them, and the speakeasy’s warmth faded into the cold, wet air of Veridian City.
The rain had stopped. The neon signs bled into the puddles, painting the streets in shades of red and blue. Lira walked beside Kael, their footsteps echoing off the empty buildings.
She didn’t look back at the speakeasy. She didn’t look at the portrait in her sketchbook. She looked ahead, at the clock-tower rising in the distance, its gears grinding against the night.
Tomorrow, she would paint the final stroke.
Tomorrow, she would forget her mother’s face.
But tonight, she walked beside a man who remembered a sister’s smile, and that was enough.
“I’m not drinking that,” she said.
Sol shrugged, his face a map of wrinkles that deepened when he smiled. “Your loss. It’s good stuff. A man sold me his first kiss for twenty ticks last week. Tasted like cherries and rain.”
Lira pushed the glass away. “I’ve lost enough memories without swallowing strangers’.”
The basement door groaned open. Lira’s hand went to the spray can in her coat pocket, but Sol raised a palm. “Easy. He’s with me.”
Kael descended the stairs, his clockwork implant ticking a steady rhythm that echoed off the boiler room walls. He moved like a man carrying a weight he couldn’t set down—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, eyes scanning every shadow. He stopped at the table, pulled out a chair, and sat without asking.
“You’re still alive,” he said to Lira.
“Disappointed?”
“Relieved.” He looked at Sol. “Dox is sweeping the Dregs. She’s got a list of every memory trader in the district. You’re on it.”
Sol’s smile didn’t waver. “I’ve been on lists before. Lists don’t kill you—people do.”
Kael’s gaze shifted to Lira. “The mural on the clock-tower. How close are you?”
“Close enough that Vane’s shaking.” She leaned back, the chair creaking. “Ninety percent. Maybe more. The tower’s hum is off-key now. People in the Dregs feel it—their tickers are slowing.”
“Then you’re running out of time.”
“I’m running out of memories.” She tapped her temple. “Every stroke costs me something. I forgot my favorite color yesterday. I stared at a wall for an hour trying to remember if it was blue or green.”
Kael’s hand moved to his chest, where his implant pulsed beneath his shirt. “I know what that’s like. Waking up with nothing. No past, no name, just a dossier and a countdown.”
Sol poured himself a glass of memory-water. “You two are a pair of broken clocks. One losing time, one losing memory. The universe has a sick sense of humor.”
Lira ignored him. She studied Kael’s face—the hard lines around his mouth, the shadows under his eyes, the way his fingers twitched toward his blade even when he was sitting still. “The woman in the mirror. You said you didn’t recognize her.”
“I don’t.”
“But you think she’s your sister.”
He nodded, slow and deliberate. “The dossier Vane gave me said I had no family. No records. No past. But when you painted that reflection, I felt something. A pull. Like I’d seen her face before, in a dream I couldn’t remember.”
Lira reached into her coat and pulled out a small sketchbook—the one she used to track what she’d lost. She flipped through pages of half-finished drawings, notes in her own handwriting that she didn’t recognize. “I can try to paint her again. A proper portrait. Not a reflection—something stable.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“Everything costs me.” She found a blank page. “But I’ve got a few memories left that I don’t need. The taste of burnt coffee. The sound of a train horn at midnight. Small things.”
Sol leaned forward. “You sure about this, girl? Every memory you burn is a piece of you gone. You don’t get them back.”
Lira met his eyes. “I know.”
She set the sketchbook on the table and opened a small tin of paint she’d mixed earlier—a deep, warm brown that reminded her of something she couldn’t name. She dipped her finger into the paint and began to draw.
The woman took shape slowly. High cheekbones. Dark hair pulled back in a loose braid. A small scar above her left eyebrow. Kael watched, his breath shallow, his hands gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles went white.
“Her eyes,” he said. “They’re lighter. Like honey.”
Lira adjusted the shade, blending a touch of yellow into the brown. “Like this?”
“Yes.”
She kept painting. The woman’s mouth curved into a faint smile. Her shoulders relaxed. She looked kind—the kind of face that belonged in a kitchen, laughing over a cup of tea, not in a Syndicate dossier or a forgotten memory.
When Lira finished, she sat back. The portrait glowed faintly, the paint still wet and alive. The woman’s eyes blinked.
Kael’s breath caught. “She moved.”
“The paint stabilizes when it connects to something real.” Lira wiped her finger on her pants. “Your memory of her—it’s strong. The paint’s holding it.”
The woman in the portrait smiled wider. Her lips parted, and a sound came out—soft, like wind through leaves. A laugh.
Kael’s face crumpled. He pressed a hand to his mouth, his shoulders shaking. Tears ran down his cheeks, cutting tracks through the grime on his skin. “I remember her laugh. I didn’t know I remembered it until now.”
Lira watched him. She felt a hollow ache in her chest—not from the memory she’d lost, but from the one she’d given him. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know her name.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “But she’s my sister. I know it. She used to braid my hair when I was small. She’d sing to me when I couldn’t sleep.”
“What did she sing?”
He closed his eyes. “I don’t remember the words. Just the tune. It was low and slow, like a lullaby.”
Lira looked at the portrait. The woman’s smile was steady now, frozen in the moment of laughter. “She loved you.”
“I know.” Kael’s voice cracked. “And I forgot her. The Syndicate took her from me. They took everything.”
Sol refilled his glass. “That’s what they do. They don’t just steal time—they steal who you are. Strip you down until you’re a blank slate they can write on.”
Kael’s hand moved to his implant. “This thing counts down my borrowed time. Every tick is a day I shouldn’t have. I’ve been alive for eight years, and I don’t remember a single one before that.”
Lira closed the sketchbook. “What would you do if you got your memories back?”
“Find her.” He looked at the portrait. “Find my sister. Tell her I’m sorry.”
“You don’t know if she’s still alive.”
“I don’t care. I need to know.”
The basement fell silent. The pipes dripped. The memory-water swirled in Sol’s glass. Lira felt the weight of her own missing memories pressing against her skull—a hundred small deaths she’d chosen, each one a price she’d paid for the mural.
“I’m running out of room,” she said quietly. “The journal’s half-empty. I don’t remember my first kiss. I don’t remember my father’s voice. I don’t remember the name of my best friend.”
Kael looked at her. “Why do you keep going?”
“Because if I stop, the tower wins. Vane wins. Everyone in this city dies young, and no one remembers what they lost.” She touched the portrait. “I’d rather forget everything than let that happen.”
Sol set down his glass. “You’re a fool, girl. A noble fool, but a fool nonetheless.”
“I know.”
Kael reached across the table and took her hand. His palm was rough, calloused from years of gripping blades. “When this is over—if we survive—I’ll help you remember. I’ll tell you everything I know about you. We’ll piece it together.”
Lira pulled her hand back. “You won’t remember me. By the time the mural’s done, I won’t remember you.”
“Then I’ll remind you.”
“You can’t remind someone of nothing.”
He held her gaze. “I’ll try.”
The portrait on the table flickered. The woman’s smile dimmed, then brightened again. Lira felt a sharp pain behind her eyes—a memory slipping away. She closed her eyes and let it go.
When she opened them, she didn’t know what color the sky was. She didn’t know if she’d ever seen a sunrise. But she knew the weight of the spray can in her pocket, and she knew the face of a woman who might be Kael’s sister.
“I forgot my favorite color,” she said. “It was blue. I think.”
Kael shook his head. “It was green. You told me earlier.”
“I don’t remember telling you.”
“You did. In the flooded station. You said green reminded you of leaves after rain.”
Lira stared at him. “I don’t remember that.”
“I do.” He tapped his temple. “I’ll hold it for you. Until you can hold it yourself.”
Sol stood up, his joints popping. “You two are making me sentimental. I hate that.” He walked to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of clear liquid. “This is the real stuff. No memories in it—just alcohol. Drink it. You’ll need your wits for tomorrow.”
Lira took the bottle. She didn’t drink. She held it, feeling the cool glass against her palm, and thought about all the things she’d never know.
The portrait of Kael’s sister sat on the table, glowing faintly. The woman’s smile was frozen, but her eyes seemed to follow Lira—warm, knowing, forgiving.
“She would have liked you,” Kael said.
Lira looked at him. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He pointed at the portrait. “She’s smiling. She never smiled for anyone she didn’t trust.”
Lira didn’t answer. She picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink. The alcohol burned going down, but it didn’t wash away the hollow feeling in her chest.
She set the bottle down. “Tomorrow night. The final stroke.”
Kael nodded. “I’ll be there.”
“You might die.”
“I know.”
“I might forget you before you hit the ground.”
He smiled—a small, sad thing. “Then I’ll die twice. Once in the body, once in your memory.”
Lira looked at the portrait again. The woman’s smile hadn’t faded. It was the only thing in the room that felt permanent.
She closed the sketchbook and stood up. “I need to finish the mural. The tower’s waiting.”
Kael stood with her. “I’ll walk you to the edge of the Dregs.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
They left Sol in the basement, pouring himself another glass of memory-water. The door groaned shut behind them, and the speakeasy’s warmth faded into the cold, wet air of Veridian City.
The rain had stopped. The neon signs bled into the puddles, painting the streets in shades of red and blue. Lira walked beside Kael, their footsteps echoing off the empty buildings.
She didn’t look back at the speakeasy. She didn’t look at the portrait in her sketchbook. She looked ahead, at the clock-tower rising in the distance, its gears grinding against the night.
Tomorrow, she would paint the final stroke.
Tomorrow, she would forget her mother’s face.
But tonight, she walked beside a man who remembered a sister’s smile, and that was enough.