At first, Mira thought she had done it. For days after Jalen drank the vial, the apartment glowed with life again. He woke before dawn, humming under his breath, bustling about with nervous energy. He cooked breakfast for them both, scrambled eggs and toast that filled the room with a warmth she hadn't realized she'd missed.
He laughed often. It startled her each time, that bright sound ricocheting through the tiny space like bells. He would tell her stories from years past—things she half-remembered but struggled to picture fully. He reminded her of summers by the river, of late-night games in the stairwell, of someone who had once made her blush in ways she could no longer place. Mira would nod along, smiling tightly, even as a quiet panic stirred in her chest.
Because there were gaps.
She'd always had a collection of memories she treasured, soft places to retreat when the world pressed too hard. A face, a touch, a night beneath lanterns. But when she tried to summon them now, the images slipped through her fingers like water. Something was missing, though she couldn't name what. She had traded it, she knew that much, though her mind refused to shape the loss into words.
Jalen didn't notice. He was too busy rediscovering life. He took long walks through the city, sometimes pulling her with him, marveling at the things he had ignored for months: children playing in the gutters, a singer on the corner spinning sorrow into melody, vendors hawking vials of dull courage and tired calm.
"This world isn't as gray as I thought," he said once, squeezing her hand. "I was blind, Mira. But I see it again. Because of you."
Her heart ached at his words. She told herself it had been worth it, that no memory could compare to the sight of her brother smiling again. But when she lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, she felt hollow. She would press her fingers to her temples, trying to coax forth what had been taken, and recoil from the ache that bloomed there.
It lasted six weeks.
The change in Jalen was so slow she almost missed it at first. A morning when he didn't rise from bed. A silence at the table that stretched too long. A laugh that faltered halfway through, leaving him staring into the distance with eyes gone glassy.
By the seventh week, he was slipping again. The darkness crept back into his features, a familiar shadow. Mira tried to deny it, but the signs were there: his hands trembling, his appetite fading, his gaze fixed inward at something she couldn't reach.
One evening she found him sitting at the window, staring at nothing.
"Jalen?" she asked softly.
He blinked, turned toward her, and whispered, "It's fading. I can feel it leaving me. The warmth, the light—it's slipping away." His voice cracked. "I don't want to go back there, Mira. I can't."
Her stomach dropped. She had known, deep down, that nothing from the Exchange could last forever. But hearing him say it filled her with dread.
"What do I do?" she asked, her voice breaking. "Tell me how to help."
He grasped her wrists with desperate strength. "Another vial. You have to get another. Please."
That night, Mira could not sleep. She sat in the kitchen, staring at the cracked tile floor, her hands trembling. She thought of the pale-eyed woman at the Exchange, of the shelves of bottled light, of the icy pain as her memory was stolen. She remembered the emptiness that followed, the aching hollow that refused to heal.
And she remembered Jalen's laughter.
The laughter that was gone again.
Her chest ached with the impossible choice before her. She had already paid with her first love. What would the woman demand this time?
Mira did not know. She only knew that she would go.
The path to the Exchange seemed darker the second time. The alleys twisted, shadows gathering like teeth. She carried no lantern, relying instead on the pull in her gut that seemed to know the way. By the time she reached the hidden door, her hands were shaking.
The pale-eyed woman was waiting, as though she had known Mira would return. Her expression was calm, detached, but Mira thought she glimpsed a flicker of satisfaction in those cold eyes.
"You've come back sooner than most," the woman murmured. "I told you—every trade has consequences."
Mira's voice shook. "He's fading again. I need another vial."
The woman tilted her head. "Of course you do. Happiness burns quickly, like kindling. A blaze, not a hearth."
"What will it cost this time?" Mira whispered.
The woman studied her, lips curling faintly. "You have already given your first love. A sweet memory, yes, but there are deeper veins yet to mine. For another vial of happiness, I will take your childhood joys. The simplest ones. Laughter in the streets, the warmth of your mother's arms, the safety of bedtime stories. All the light that shaped you before you knew the weight of this world."
Mira's breath caught. Her childhood. The fragile, precious memories that had carried her through the hardest nights. To lose them would be to cut away her very foundation.
"I can't…" she whispered.
"You can," the woman corrected gently. "The question is whether you will."
Mira left the Exchange that night with another golden vial pressed to her chest.
The price had been taken. She could feel it—emptiness yawning wider within her, a disconnection she couldn't describe. The sound of her mother's voice, the echo of her brother's childish laughter, the glow of safety—all gone. When she reached for them, she found only blankness, as though her past had been scraped clean.
Tears blurred her vision as she stumbled home.
Jalen was waiting. His eyes widened when she pressed the vial into his hands, his desperation so raw it made her chest hurt. He drank quickly, hungrily, and as before, the light rushed back into him. His body shuddered, his face broke open with joy, his laughter filled the room.
Mira forced a smile, holding him as he wept with relief.
Inside, she felt nothing.
Only hollow, widening silence.