Just keep walking. No one has any reason to think you don't belong here. For all they know, you're just another face in the crowd. No one suspects a thing. Just. Keep. Walking.

There was nowhere to look that didn't feel like a reminder. Every flower was her favorite color, every shop somewhere she would've loved. Out of the corners of his eyes, every face looked like hers. It seemed like a betrayal, being here without her. The things they'd talked about for hours felt awful without her there.

He needed a way to get her back. But what could he do? There was no insane plan that would work this time. No one of his classic schemes would have a chance of succeeding. They knew him. They knew every part of his mind, every angle he could devise. She was gone forever. And he could do nothing about it. He couldn't save her, couldn't help at all.

Another unpleasant thought came into his mind. Where was he supposed to go? He didn't have any friends. No family, nowhere to stay. The most likely option at this point was to sleep under a bench in the park. It could be worse.

She could've done something. Her plans actually worked. She was the smartest person he'd ever known. She knew so much about the world. But in the end, it hadn't helped her. Not much could've.

It was better than nothing.

He repeated the words to himself as he huddled closer to the base of the tree he had decided to sit under. He faced away from everything, unwilling to look at the reminders of everything he'd lost.

He closed his eyes against the chill, only to force them open again when memories flashed behind his eyelids. There was nowhere he could escape from them. Every moment was tinged with a sense of loss, every second he breathed reminded him of a second she didn't.

But what could he do? There wasn't anything in this modern hellscape of a world that could bring someone back from the dead. When one breathed their last breath, that was it. Their body burned or buried, and life went on.

But it didn't. Not for him.

"Excuse me."

He startled, his head whipping up to see a man in a tailored suit and red gloves staring down at him, a frown etched on his handsome face.

"Um," he mumbled, blinking up at the man.

"Are you quite alright, young man?" The man had an accent that he couldn't place. There was something almost otherworldly about the man.

He swallowed, shaking his head. "I-I'm fine, sir. Really."

The man hummed disbelievingly. "Is that so? Will you tell me, then, why you are curled under a tree like some sort of wild animal?"

He flinched at the rather apt description. "I-" he stumbled for an explanation. "I've lost someone close to me, sir. I find myself lost without her."

The man visibly softened, the frown turning into something more like a smirk. "I'm terribly sorry for your loss, young man."

There was something about the man that compelled him to continue talking. "And I just... I wish there was a way to bring her back, you know? She always had things together. She knew what she was doing, her plans always worked. If she were still here, no doubt we'd be in a comfy inn instead of me trying to sleep under a tree like a... like a wild animal, as you said."

The man's smirk had widened as he spoke, nodding along to his words. Now, as he looked up, he saw a glint in the man's eye.

"Now, I make no promises," the man began, crossing his arms and tapping his foot, "but what if I told you there was a way that you could bring her back?"

He laughed incredulously at first, before realizing that the man was being serious. A small glimmer of hope bloomed in his chest as he swallowed and said, "where do I sign?"

The man, who had since introduced himself as Harold, led me to the side, and sat me down at what could have been a nice little park cafe, if not for the damaged inflicted upon it by bored teenagers and small children who had collectively clearly kicked a dent in the icecream freezer upon being denied the sweet nectar by their parents.

I had coffee. Harold chose a piece of particularly dry looking chocolate fudge cake. Digging his dainty three pronged fork into the crumbling sponge, he looked right at me. His blue eyes were unnervingly still, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. The fork continued its methodical journey through the cake, each bite deliberate, as though he was savouring not the dessert but the anticipation hanging between us.

"You want to know the conditions," Harold said finally.

"I... yes. Of course there are conditions." My fingers wrapped around the warm coffee cup, seeking comfort from its heat. "This is--big. It can't be free."

Harold smiled at that. "How refreshingly pragmatic. Most people ask foolish questions first. 'Are you really a genie?' 'Is this real?' Tedious things." He set down his fork with a soft clink. "But you already know what I am, don't you? On some level, you recognized it the moment you saw me."

I wanted to deny it, but he was right. There had been something impossible about him from the start. "So you're... what? A wish-granter?"

"In a manner of speaking." Harold leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously under his weight. "I facilitate certain transactions between the living and the dead. Very specialized work. Very few individuals have the particular... desperation... required to warrant my attention."

"And what do you want? My soul?" I asked, half-joking, though my voice wavered, sipping at the hot coffee to calm my nerves. "Isn't that how these things work?"

Harold laughed. "How dreadfully cliché. No, no. I don't have much use for souls. They're so troublesome, so full of regrets and contradictions." He pulled a small leather notebook from inside his jacket, edges worn with age. "The price is far simpler than that."

He opened to a blank page and slid it across the table toward me. There was a pen beside it, seemingly appearing from nowhere.

"For every year she has been dead, you will lose one memory of her. Erased, as though it never happened. The Fates' terms, not mine." He tapped a gloved finger on the page. "How long has it been?"

"Two years," I whispered.

"Two years," Harold repeated, nodding solemnly. "So two memories. That should be easy." He smiled thinly. "

My chest tightened. I wanted to refuse, but the image of her pulled at me like a fish on a hook.

Two memories for a lifetime together.

It seemed like a bargain.

"And there's one more thing," Harold added, his voice dropping lower. "You'll know exactly which memories you're about to lose. You'll have one day to relive them fully. To sit with them, to memorize everything about them one last time. And then, when the sun sets, they'll be gone."

"Why would you do that?" I demanded. "Why not just take them?"

"Mercy," Harold said simply, and something in his expression suggested he was sincere. He pulled out a silver pocket watch. "So? Do we have an agreement?"

I looked down at the pen, then at my hands. They were shaking.

"If I do this," I said slowly, "and she comes back... will she remember me?"

"She'll remember everything. Consider it the tax on resurrection, payment extracted from the summoner, not the summoned."

I picked up the pen. "What do I write?" I asked.

"Your name," Harold said. "Just your name. That's the signature that binds the contract."

My hand hovered over the paper for what felt like an eternity. Then I wrote my name, the letters appearing in a hand I barely recognized.

The moment the final letter was complete, Harold blurred and when he came back into focus, the contract had vanished and his red gloves were stained with fresh blood. A small cut had appeared on my palm without my feeling it.

"It's done," Harold said, standing up. "Your girl will wake up in her bed tomorrow morning, right where she was taken from. She won't remember dying. She'll just remember you, and missing you." He placed a hand on my shoulder, and it was ice-cold. "You have until sunset tomorrow to say goodbye to those memories. Make them count."