The Journal of Missing Years
The speakeasy was hidden behind a butcher shop that sold meat no one asked questions about. Lira found it because Sol found her first—a wiry old man with a face like crumpled paper and eyes that had seen too many tickers count down to zero. He'd grabbed her arm as she stumbled out of the subway station, her clothes still dripping black water, and said, "You're the one who painted the phoenix."
She didn't ask how he knew. The Dregs was a sieve for secrets.
Now she sat in a booth upholstered in cracked red vinyl, her hands wrapped around a cup of something that burned going down but didn't warm her. The speakeasy was a converted boiler room, pipes running across the ceiling like exposed veins, each one dripping condensation that smelled of copper and old sweat. A dozen people hunched over tables, their faces lit by the glow of tickers embedded in their wrists. Some talked in low voices. Others just stared at nothing, their eyes hollow.
Sol slid into the seat across from her. He carried a leather-bound book, thick as a brick, its pages yellowed and warped. He set it on the table between them.
"This is what's left of my life," he said. "Forty-three years, give or take."
Lira looked at the book. She didn't touch it. "You wrote it all down?"
"Had to." Sol tapped his temple. "The Syndicate doesn't just take ticks. They take memories. Sell them back to the rich as entertainment. You ever watch a man relive his first kiss for a hundred credits?" He spat to the side. "I've seen it. So I started writing. Every morning, I write down what I remember from the day before. If they take it, I've still got the words."
Lira pulled her own journal from her coat. It was smaller than his, barely half-filled. She'd started it three days ago. Already, she had to flip back to the first page to remind herself why she'd written it.
She read the entry: *Day one. I painted a bridge. It fixed itself. I forgot my art teacher's name. Mrs. something. Brown hair. Glasses. I think she was kind.*
The memory was gone. The words were all she had.
Sol watched her read. His eyes were sharp, missing nothing. "You're burning faster than most."
"I know."
"How many memories have you lost?"
Lira closed the journal. "I don't know. I can't remember what I've forgotten."
"That's the worst part, isn't it?" Sol leaned back. The vinyl creaked. "The holes. You feel them. Like a tooth that's been pulled. Your tongue keeps going back to the gap."
She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
A woman at the next table laughed—a sharp, brittle sound. Her ticker glowed bright green, counting down from twelve years. She was young, maybe twenty-five, but her eyes were old. She caught Lira looking and smiled, showing teeth stained brown from cheap stim-chew.
"First time?" the woman asked.
Lira shook her head.
"Then you know the drill." The woman tapped her ticker. "This thing eats your past. Every time you sell a memory, you get a few more ticks. But the memories don't come back. You just get emptier." She laughed again, the same hollow sound. "I sold my daughter's face last week. Got three months. Worth it, right?"
Lira's stomach turned. She looked away.
Sol reached across the table and flipped open his book. The pages were covered in cramped handwriting, diagrams, dates. He found a page near the middle and turned it toward her.
"The clock-tower," he said.
Lira leaned in. The drawing was crude but clear—a massive structure, gears visible through its skin, a spire that pierced the smog. At its base, a reservoir of glowing liquid, the color of old gold.
"That's where they keep it," Sol said. "Every tick they drain, every year they steal—it all goes there. The Chronos Reservoir. It's the heart of the Syndicate."
Lira traced the drawing with her finger. The paper felt warm. "How do you know this?"
"I used to work for them." Sol's voice was flat. "Thirty years ago. I was an accountant. I kept the books. I know exactly how many years they've stolen, and I know exactly where they keep them."
"Why are you telling me?"
"Because you can destroy it."
Lira pulled her hand back. "I don't even know how my power works. I'm guessing. Every time I use it, I lose something. I'm running on fumes."
Sol closed the book. The thud echoed in the small room. "You're not running on fumes. You're running on memory. And the tower is the biggest memory in the city. Every stolen year, every forgotten face, every sold childhood—it's all in there. If you paint the tower with enough chrono-energy, you don't just break it. You shatter it."
Lira stared at him. "You want me to paint a building."
"I want you to paint a revolution."
The words hung in the air, heavy as the dripping pipes. Lira thought of the bridge, the way the stone had ground back into place. She thought of the phoenix, the way the tickers had stopped. She thought of the flooded station, the cold water, the taste of rust.
She thought of Kael. The way he'd hesitated. The woman's face in his eyes.
"I don't know if I can," she said.
Sol's expression softened. For a moment, he looked old. Not the kind of old that came from years, but the kind that came from watching too many people burn out.
"You don't have to know," he said. "You just have to try."
The speakeasy door opened. A man in a long coat stepped in, water dripping from his hood. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on Lira. He didn't move toward her. He just stood there, watching.
Lira's hand went to her pocket. She had a spray can in there, half-empty. She'd used it to paint the door in the subway.
Sol put a hand on her arm. "Easy. He's one of mine."
The man nodded once, then slipped into a booth near the back. He didn't look at her again.
Lira let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "How many people do you have?"
"Enough." Sol stood. He picked up his book, cradling it like a child. "I'll get you a map of the tower. The base is vulnerable. If you can reach it, you can paint the first stroke."
"First stroke of what?"
Sol smiled. It was a sad smile, the kind that knew too much. "A mural. A big one. Big enough to hold every stolen year in this city."
He walked away, disappearing through a door marked *PRIVATE* in chipped gold paint. Lira sat alone, the vinyl creaking beneath her. She pulled out her journal and opened it to a blank page.
She wrote: *Day four. I met a man named Sol. He says I can break the clock-tower. I don't know if I believe him. But I don't know what else to do.*
She paused. The pen hovered over the page.
She wrote: *I think I'm forgetting something important. I don't know what it is. But I feel it. Like a hole in my chest.*
She closed the journal. The woman at the next table was gone. The man in the long coat was still there, nursing a drink that looked like water. The pipes dripped. The tickers glowed.
Lira stood. Her legs were heavy, her head thick. She hadn't slept in two days. She'd eaten nothing but a stale bread roll she'd found in the subway station.
She walked to the door Sol had disappeared through. It was unlocked. She pushed it open.
The room beyond was small, cluttered with papers and maps and old photographs. Sol sat at a desk, his back to her, a lamp casting a circle of light on the surface. He was writing in his book.
"Come in," he said without turning.
Lira stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her.
Sol gestured to a chair. She sat. The room smelled of dust and ink and something metallic, like old blood.
"I need to know something," she said.
Sol put down his pen. "Ask."
"Does it hurt? When they take your memories?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The lamp hummed. A pipe dripped somewhere in the wall.
"Yes," he said finally. "It hurts. Not like a wound. Like a loss. You feel it go. Like a door closing in a room you didn't know you were standing in."
Lira nodded. She'd felt it. Every time. The door closing.
"How many have you sold?" she asked.
Sol turned. His face was in shadow, but his eyes caught the light. "All of them. I sold everything. My wife's face. My daughter's laugh. The smell of rain. The taste of bread. I sold it all for extra ticks. I'm a blank now. I don't remember anything before I started writing this book."
He tapped the leather cover.
"This is all I am. Words on paper."
Lira looked at the book. It was thick. Heavy. Full of a life he couldn't remember.
"Why do you help me?" she asked.
Sol smiled. It was the same sad smile from before. "Because I can't remember why I should stop."
He stood. He walked to a cabinet and pulled out a rolled-up sheet of paper. He brought it to the desk and spread it open.
It was a map of the clock-tower. Detailed. Every floor, every gear, every corridor. At the base, a circle marked *RESERVOIR* in red ink.
"The mural starts here," Sol said, pointing. "You paint the base. The chrono-energy will flow up the tower. When you reach the top, you paint the final stroke."
"What's the final stroke?"
Sol looked at her. His eyes were old, but they were clear.
"Your most precious memory. The one that anchors you. The one you can't afford to lose."
Lira's throat tightened. She knew what it was. She'd known since the moment she'd first used her power.
Her mother's face.
"If I paint it," she said, "I'll forget her."
"Yes."
"Forever."
"Yes."
Lira stared at the map. The red circle pulsed in the lamplight. She thought of her mother's hands, rough from work, gentle when they touched her cheek. She thought of her voice, low and warm, singing lullabies in a language Lira no longer understood.
She thought of the hole that would be left behind.
"I'll do it," she said.
Sol didn't look surprised. He just nodded, rolled up the map, and handed it to her.
"Then you'd better start painting."
Lira took the map. It was heavier than it looked. She tucked it into her coat, next to her journal.
She walked to the door. Her hand was on the handle when Sol spoke again.
"Lira."
She turned.
"When you forget her," he said, "someone else will remember. That's what we do. We remember for each other."
Lira didn't answer. She opened the door and stepped out into the speakeasy, where the pipes dripped and the tickers glowed and the hollow-eyed people traded their pasts for a few more days.
She walked through the butcher shop, past the hanging carcasses that didn't look quite real, and out into the acid rain.
The clock-tower loomed in the distance, its gears turning, its lights bleeding into the smog.
She pulled out her spray can. She shook it. The rattle was loud in the empty street.
She started walking.
She didn't ask how he knew. The Dregs was a sieve for secrets.
Now she sat in a booth upholstered in cracked red vinyl, her hands wrapped around a cup of something that burned going down but didn't warm her. The speakeasy was a converted boiler room, pipes running across the ceiling like exposed veins, each one dripping condensation that smelled of copper and old sweat. A dozen people hunched over tables, their faces lit by the glow of tickers embedded in their wrists. Some talked in low voices. Others just stared at nothing, their eyes hollow.
Sol slid into the seat across from her. He carried a leather-bound book, thick as a brick, its pages yellowed and warped. He set it on the table between them.
"This is what's left of my life," he said. "Forty-three years, give or take."
Lira looked at the book. She didn't touch it. "You wrote it all down?"
"Had to." Sol tapped his temple. "The Syndicate doesn't just take ticks. They take memories. Sell them back to the rich as entertainment. You ever watch a man relive his first kiss for a hundred credits?" He spat to the side. "I've seen it. So I started writing. Every morning, I write down what I remember from the day before. If they take it, I've still got the words."
Lira pulled her own journal from her coat. It was smaller than his, barely half-filled. She'd started it three days ago. Already, she had to flip back to the first page to remind herself why she'd written it.
She read the entry: *Day one. I painted a bridge. It fixed itself. I forgot my art teacher's name. Mrs. something. Brown hair. Glasses. I think she was kind.*
The memory was gone. The words were all she had.
Sol watched her read. His eyes were sharp, missing nothing. "You're burning faster than most."
"I know."
"How many memories have you lost?"
Lira closed the journal. "I don't know. I can't remember what I've forgotten."
"That's the worst part, isn't it?" Sol leaned back. The vinyl creaked. "The holes. You feel them. Like a tooth that's been pulled. Your tongue keeps going back to the gap."
She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
A woman at the next table laughed—a sharp, brittle sound. Her ticker glowed bright green, counting down from twelve years. She was young, maybe twenty-five, but her eyes were old. She caught Lira looking and smiled, showing teeth stained brown from cheap stim-chew.
"First time?" the woman asked.
Lira shook her head.
"Then you know the drill." The woman tapped her ticker. "This thing eats your past. Every time you sell a memory, you get a few more ticks. But the memories don't come back. You just get emptier." She laughed again, the same hollow sound. "I sold my daughter's face last week. Got three months. Worth it, right?"
Lira's stomach turned. She looked away.
Sol reached across the table and flipped open his book. The pages were covered in cramped handwriting, diagrams, dates. He found a page near the middle and turned it toward her.
"The clock-tower," he said.
Lira leaned in. The drawing was crude but clear—a massive structure, gears visible through its skin, a spire that pierced the smog. At its base, a reservoir of glowing liquid, the color of old gold.
"That's where they keep it," Sol said. "Every tick they drain, every year they steal—it all goes there. The Chronos Reservoir. It's the heart of the Syndicate."
Lira traced the drawing with her finger. The paper felt warm. "How do you know this?"
"I used to work for them." Sol's voice was flat. "Thirty years ago. I was an accountant. I kept the books. I know exactly how many years they've stolen, and I know exactly where they keep them."
"Why are you telling me?"
"Because you can destroy it."
Lira pulled her hand back. "I don't even know how my power works. I'm guessing. Every time I use it, I lose something. I'm running on fumes."
Sol closed the book. The thud echoed in the small room. "You're not running on fumes. You're running on memory. And the tower is the biggest memory in the city. Every stolen year, every forgotten face, every sold childhood—it's all in there. If you paint the tower with enough chrono-energy, you don't just break it. You shatter it."
Lira stared at him. "You want me to paint a building."
"I want you to paint a revolution."
The words hung in the air, heavy as the dripping pipes. Lira thought of the bridge, the way the stone had ground back into place. She thought of the phoenix, the way the tickers had stopped. She thought of the flooded station, the cold water, the taste of rust.
She thought of Kael. The way he'd hesitated. The woman's face in his eyes.
"I don't know if I can," she said.
Sol's expression softened. For a moment, he looked old. Not the kind of old that came from years, but the kind that came from watching too many people burn out.
"You don't have to know," he said. "You just have to try."
The speakeasy door opened. A man in a long coat stepped in, water dripping from his hood. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on Lira. He didn't move toward her. He just stood there, watching.
Lira's hand went to her pocket. She had a spray can in there, half-empty. She'd used it to paint the door in the subway.
Sol put a hand on her arm. "Easy. He's one of mine."
The man nodded once, then slipped into a booth near the back. He didn't look at her again.
Lira let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "How many people do you have?"
"Enough." Sol stood. He picked up his book, cradling it like a child. "I'll get you a map of the tower. The base is vulnerable. If you can reach it, you can paint the first stroke."
"First stroke of what?"
Sol smiled. It was a sad smile, the kind that knew too much. "A mural. A big one. Big enough to hold every stolen year in this city."
He walked away, disappearing through a door marked *PRIVATE* in chipped gold paint. Lira sat alone, the vinyl creaking beneath her. She pulled out her journal and opened it to a blank page.
She wrote: *Day four. I met a man named Sol. He says I can break the clock-tower. I don't know if I believe him. But I don't know what else to do.*
She paused. The pen hovered over the page.
She wrote: *I think I'm forgetting something important. I don't know what it is. But I feel it. Like a hole in my chest.*
She closed the journal. The woman at the next table was gone. The man in the long coat was still there, nursing a drink that looked like water. The pipes dripped. The tickers glowed.
Lira stood. Her legs were heavy, her head thick. She hadn't slept in two days. She'd eaten nothing but a stale bread roll she'd found in the subway station.
She walked to the door Sol had disappeared through. It was unlocked. She pushed it open.
The room beyond was small, cluttered with papers and maps and old photographs. Sol sat at a desk, his back to her, a lamp casting a circle of light on the surface. He was writing in his book.
"Come in," he said without turning.
Lira stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her.
Sol gestured to a chair. She sat. The room smelled of dust and ink and something metallic, like old blood.
"I need to know something," she said.
Sol put down his pen. "Ask."
"Does it hurt? When they take your memories?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The lamp hummed. A pipe dripped somewhere in the wall.
"Yes," he said finally. "It hurts. Not like a wound. Like a loss. You feel it go. Like a door closing in a room you didn't know you were standing in."
Lira nodded. She'd felt it. Every time. The door closing.
"How many have you sold?" she asked.
Sol turned. His face was in shadow, but his eyes caught the light. "All of them. I sold everything. My wife's face. My daughter's laugh. The smell of rain. The taste of bread. I sold it all for extra ticks. I'm a blank now. I don't remember anything before I started writing this book."
He tapped the leather cover.
"This is all I am. Words on paper."
Lira looked at the book. It was thick. Heavy. Full of a life he couldn't remember.
"Why do you help me?" she asked.
Sol smiled. It was the same sad smile from before. "Because I can't remember why I should stop."
He stood. He walked to a cabinet and pulled out a rolled-up sheet of paper. He brought it to the desk and spread it open.
It was a map of the clock-tower. Detailed. Every floor, every gear, every corridor. At the base, a circle marked *RESERVOIR* in red ink.
"The mural starts here," Sol said, pointing. "You paint the base. The chrono-energy will flow up the tower. When you reach the top, you paint the final stroke."
"What's the final stroke?"
Sol looked at her. His eyes were old, but they were clear.
"Your most precious memory. The one that anchors you. The one you can't afford to lose."
Lira's throat tightened. She knew what it was. She'd known since the moment she'd first used her power.
Her mother's face.
"If I paint it," she said, "I'll forget her."
"Yes."
"Forever."
"Yes."
Lira stared at the map. The red circle pulsed in the lamplight. She thought of her mother's hands, rough from work, gentle when they touched her cheek. She thought of her voice, low and warm, singing lullabies in a language Lira no longer understood.
She thought of the hole that would be left behind.
"I'll do it," she said.
Sol didn't look surprised. He just nodded, rolled up the map, and handed it to her.
"Then you'd better start painting."
Lira took the map. It was heavier than it looked. She tucked it into her coat, next to her journal.
She walked to the door. Her hand was on the handle when Sol spoke again.
"Lira."
She turned.
"When you forget her," he said, "someone else will remember. That's what we do. We remember for each other."
Lira didn't answer. She opened the door and stepped out into the speakeasy, where the pipes dripped and the tickers glowed and the hollow-eyed people traded their pasts for a few more days.
She walked through the butcher shop, past the hanging carcasses that didn't look quite real, and out into the acid rain.
The clock-tower loomed in the distance, its gears turning, its lights bleeding into the smog.
She pulled out her spray can. She shook it. The rattle was loud in the empty street.
She started walking.