Cathedral of Memories

Vanda sat in the silence of the Cathedral of Memories, a sanctuary of the past, a place where fragments of time were preserved, pieces of lives that might otherwise be lost in the endless sea of oblivion. She was the guardian and priestess of memory, a beacon for those who sought their past or wished to rid themselves of it.

The world she lived in knew no value in gold or banknotes. Wealth was measured by the intensity, colour, and depth of lived experiences. People traded forgotten kisses for a few days of comfort, sold their first loves for a roof over their heads. And some bought new experiences to fill the empty spaces in their souls. In this world, nothing was more precious than memories, the only thing that could make a person immortal.

The cathedral lay hidden in the heart of the old town, in narrow alleys where the air mingled with the scent of history and unspoken words. It was like a being woven from time itself, its walls breathing with the past, as if remembering the footsteps of all who had ever walked through. When light filtered through the Gothic stained glass, the room transformed into a kaleidoscope of colours, as if forgotten dreams flickered within. The air was filled with the melancholy of old books, the scent of parchment and ink, as if each memory carried its own aroma.

Everyone who entered brought pieces of themselves. Here, people could exchange their painful memories for peace, their forgotten dreams for a glimpse of hope. They could purchase memories they had never lived to patch the empty spaces in their souls. For some stories were too heavy to bear, and some souls were simply too empty.

In the cathedral, people stored their most precious moments, allowing them to gain value over time. Like wine cellars full of unpredictable emotions, waiting for their moment. So that one day, someone could retrieve a forgotten childhood and feel once again how a father’s arms lifted them above the ground. So that one day, someone could wake up with the feeling of falling in love again, even if just for a moment.

Someone might ask: how is the value of a memory determined? Some were sold for mere coins, while others were priceless. There were even counterfeit memories, created by fraudsters, which could fade over the years like old paintings. And then there were those who had sold too much of themselves, who had no stories left of their own, wandering the world with minds as empty as blank pages.

The door creaked open, and a woman with a weary face stepped inside. Her eyes carried the burden of a past she could no longer bear.

"I want to sell a memory," she whispered.

Vanda nodded, handed her a crystal vessel, and touched her temple. The image shimmered. A child on a swing, wind tousling their hair, laughter mixing with the sounds of summer. A mother watching with infinite love. And then suddenly... only shadow. A tide of pain that followed, so deep and raw that it etched itself into the very core of the soul. A memory that was not just an image but a weight that burdened the heart with every breath.

Something like this could not be sold, could not be valued, for its price was measured only in tears and loss. Vanda took the memory and placed it on a shelf marked "Priceless" a place for fragments of life too dear to own yet too heavy to carry alone. The woman left with an emptier gaze, but a drop more peace in her heart.

Then a young man arrived.

"I need hope," he said, placing a few small coins into Vanda’s hands.

It was not a great sum, but not every memory was bought with gold. Vanda selected a small vial.

"This is a first dance under the stars. It holds the taste of youth and happiness, unaware of its impermanence."

The man inhaled, and for a moment, his eyes glowed with a joy long buried within him.

Then entered a man with an empty gaze. Not like those who came to exchange pain for peace. Not like those who came to buy hope. His eyes were devoid of a past.

"I have lost everything," he said quietly. "I cannot remember who I am. My mind is as blank as a page never written. But I have nothing to pay with."

Vanda led him to the shelves where past lives of others were stored.

"Memories are not just the past. They are proof that we have lived, laughed, fallen, and risen again. Without them, we would be empty, like pages without words."

In the cathedral, collectors also appeared, wealthy men and women seeking memories they had never lived. They bought fragments of other lives, precious moments of love, lost stories they could wear like gemstones in their minds. One of them, an old man in an expensive coat, requested a memory of love he had never known.

"I had everything, gold, power, influence... but I never felt what it was like to be loved unconditionally."

Vanda looked at him and handed him a tiny crystal vial.

"This is a memory of a gaze filled with sincere tenderness, a touch that asks for nothing. A moment when a heart belonged only to you, and nothing else was needed."

The man accepted it with trembling hands, and for a moment, a longing flickered in his eyes for something he could never truly buy.

"Every memory is a gift," she said. "Some can be bought, others traded, but the most precious ones belong to no one. They simply endure, waiting for the moment someone deserves them. Such memories cannot be owned, only felt and kept in the heart."

From the shadows of the shelves, a young traveller stepped forward, eyes filled with questions.

"And what would enriched memories look like?" he asked.

Vanda smiled. "Perhaps they would age like old films, losing colours but gaining beauty. Perhaps they would transform into pure wisdom, into the ability to see life in new perspectives, to understand its fragility and wonder."

The young man ran his fingers over one of the shelves thoughtfully.

"And which memories would be the most valuable?"

"Perhaps the small ones," Vanda whispered. "The voice of a grandmother whispering fairy tales. The first rain kissing a child’s cheeks. The moment someone whispered that you were their whole world. It is the tiny fragments of our existence that the soul treasures most."

The young man nodded. "And the words 'I will never forget you'?"

Vanda paused for a moment. "They are a promise of eternal ownership. Perhaps they hide the desire to never lose the pain of loss, for even that pain was proof of love. Perhaps they are the rarest coin, the one no one wishes to sell."

Vanda knew the world would not change tomorrow. Memories would remain a currency, pain would be exchanged for escape, and hope for coins. But one thought lingered in her heart: What if one day someone wished to own all the memories of the world? What if someone tried to trade their entire past for oblivion? Would that still be life? Or just an empty vessel never inscribed? The answers lay in the memories that would never be sold.

At the end of the day, as Vanda closed the cathedral, she took one of the old books and inhaled its scent. The aroma of paper and ink transported her back to childhood. To a room where her grandmother told stories. She smiled. She knew she was rich. In a world where everything could be bought and sold, memories remained the most precious treasure. Because in the end, the most valuable things we have are not possessions but the stories that live within us.