The Shop Never Opens on Time
The shop never opened on time.
Not because the owner was careless,
but because every morning, Thir remained still behind the counter, watching sunlight spill through the front window—as though he were waiting for something to return.
What that something was, he did not know.
The shop sat quietly at the corner of a narrow street. Small. Easily overlooked.
An old wooden sign hung slightly crooked, its white letters faded by years of wind and rain:
This Shop Repairs Memories
There was no explanation beneath it.
No list of services.
No price.
No warning.
Most people slowed when they passed, read the sign once, then smiled faintly and walked on—unsure whether it was a joke, an art piece, or simply a shop that should not exist.
But those who entered never hesitated because of doubt.
They hesitated because of pain.
Inside, the air was warmer than outside, heavy with the scent of old wood and tea brewed long ago and forgotten. A single wooden chair stood at the center of the room. The floor around it was scarred—long, shallow scratches carved by something dragged back and forth, as though someone had once sat there for far too long, unable to stand.
Thir stood behind the counter, sleeves of his cream-colored shirt rolled neatly to his elbows, a dark apron tied at his waist. Under the soft amber light, his face appeared pale, almost translucent. Shadows lay beneath his eyes—marks of nights spent awake, listening to memories that were never his own.
He did not look like a doctor.
He did not look like a therapist.
He did not look like someone who should be trusted with another person's past.
And yet—
Whenever someone stepped inside, Thir always said the same thing.
The Rules of Repair
"Before we begin," he would say,
"I need to explain the rules."
He would gesture toward the wooden chair.
It was an invitation—and a warning.
Once you sat down, there was no turning back.
1.Memories can be repaired.
2.Every repair requires an exchange.
3.I do not create false memories. Especially not love.
He always paused after the third rule.
Not for the customer—but for himself.
"If you can accept this," he would say quietly,
"then we may begin."
Most people nodded.
Fear was light compared to the weight of what they carried.
The Woman Who Arrived Too Early
That morning, Thir had barely unlocked the door when the bell above it rang.
Ting.
He looked up.
A woman stood in the doorway, backlit by the morning sun. For a brief moment, her figure blurred, as if she were not fully anchored to the world—like someone who might vanish if he blinked too hard.
Her hair brushed her shoulders, light brown and softly untamed. She wore a pale pastel dress, simple and unassuming. Her eyes were wide and clear, yet they seemed fixed on something far beyond the small shop.
She smiled.
It was the kind of smile people practiced.
Careful. Polite. Designed to say I am fine even when they were not.
"Are you open?" she asked.
Her voice was gentle. Steady. Too steady.
Thir nodded and began the familiar line.
"This shop repairs memories, but before that—"
"I know," she said, interrupting him far too quickly.
Thir stopped.
His gaze fell to her hands. One gripped the strap of her bag tightly. The other trembled—barely noticeable. Not with fear, but with effort, as if she were holding onto something already slipping away.
Something Already Missing
"Have you been here before?" he asked, surprised by his own question.
She shook her head slowly.
"No."
Then she smiled again—this time, only one corner of her mouth lifted.
"But I think," she said softly,
"I will come here often."
Something tightened in Thir's chest.
He did not know why.
He stepped out from behind the counter and pulled the wooden chair forward.
"Please," he said. "Have a seat."
She walked toward it, her footsteps barely audible, as though afraid the floor might remember her. Before sitting, she looked up at him.
There was something in her eyes he had never seen in a customer before.
Not hope.
Not despair.
Acceptance.
"Before we start," she said calmly,
"If I forget something… will you tell me?"
Thir frowned.
"Forget what?"
She shook her head again. Slower this time.
"I don't know," she said.
"I just feel like… this time, something will disappear."
In that instant, Thir sensed it.
Not a memory.
Not an image.
But a fracture—thin and fragile, like a crack in glass—hidden deep within her mind.
His heart began to race, even though he had not touched her.
"What is your name?" he asked.
She smiled.
It was beautiful.
And unbearably sad.
"Lin."
Thir nodded. His hand lifted, stopping just short of her temple, leaving only a breath of space between skin and fingertips.
"Then," he said softly,
"we will begin."
The lights in the shop dimmed, leaving only the warm glow of the lamp. In the silence, something echoed in both of their minds—
A sound like glass, slowly breaking.
Thir did not yet know that this repair would tear open a memory he had never finished losing.