The request is short, to the point: “Wanted: memory of Mother. Trade for memory of First Kiss. #memoryswap #memoryexchange #mom.”

I’m not sure why it catches my attention. I’ve been lurking on the Memory Forum for a few months, interested in what people would advertise for—the ghosts of what they wanted and those they hoped to exorcise. But maybe because I just hung up the phone on my Eomma, because frustrated tears prickle against the blue-light glare in my eyes, I pause between offers of acid trips and Michelin-star dinners and click on the thread. I have so many memories of Eomma. I can cope without one of them.

The OP’s name is Sarah Lim. I ping her a message: “When do you want to meet?”

* * *

Sarah is a slim woman in her mid-thirties, which surprises me. I expected her to be a tragic kid, or maybe an angsty teen, especially since what she had to trade was a first kiss, but she could be my older sister. We sit awkwardly across from each other at a coffee shop, her HippoChip already on the table between us. The small disk looks so vulnerable, disconnected from the neuronode at her temple.

“Thanks for responding to my ad,” she says. “You were the only one.”

I shrug. “I have some memories to spare. What kind of memory did you want? Your request was a little vague. Which is totally fine, but you only have one first kiss, you know, and I want it to be a good swap.” I hope it doesn’t sound as though I lack the guts to make the choice myself.

Sarah’s smile rings with silent laughter. “You can have a lot of first kisses, but you only have one mother. The choice should be yours.”

I reject the memory of Eomma teaching me to swim, which I earmarked for the kid, and the one for the teenager of us cooking a rare pot of rameyon together at midnight when I came home crying from my first breakup. What could elegant Sarah Lim want? She leans back against the plastic chair back, her black hair cutting a sharp angle against her cream blazer. My own hair is short, tips still clinging to their year-old bleach, and a memory presents itself: Eomma grimacing as I wielded a bottle of blue dye in front of the bathroom mirror. Do I have a son, now? she asked. Everyone will think you’re gay. You were prettier before.

On reflex, I send it to my HippoChip and pass it across the table, secretly a little glad that perfect Sarah will know the feeling of disapproval.

“Thanks,” she says. We upload each other’s memories to our nodes and return the Chips. Mine holds the heat from her hand long after she passes it back.

* * *

Sarah’s first kiss is off the charts: on a bridge over the river, city lights like stars dancing on the water, the other person—gender customizable, like the Premium memories that require monetary activation—cradling my face with soft hands. I live that tenderness over and over again, giddy at my luck, feeling like I’ve gotten away with something.

So I don’t expect it when Sarah pings me a few weeks later: “I wanted to give you first dibs on a new trade. Same request. I’m offering Winning First Prize at a Speech Competition.”

It’s too good to pass up. I’ve never won anything in my life. I give Sarah the memory of Eomma berating me in front of my grandparents for burning their anniversary dinner. I don’t apologize for the misery I have on offer, and she never explains why she accepts it. I salve my guilt with the consolation that even an angry mom is better than none at all.

We swap memories for the rest of the year. I feed on them all like a junkie. It’s like Sarah’s given me an entire new life: perfect dates, fulfilling jobs, gorgeous apartments. And she eventually earns more than unpleasantness. I trade up the ramyeon night, the bike-riding lesson, a birthday trip to the seaside. I tell myself that I won’t miss them. I tell myself that I’m old enough not to need those reminders of that old life.

I call Eomma less and less. We never had much to talk about, but now I struggle with even a ten-minute conversation. Sarah’s memories have shown me the happiness the world has to offer. I tell myself it’s only logical that I’ve outgrown the person I used to be.

* * *

On one of our Saturday afternoons, Sarah and I meet at a park. Lying on the yellowing soccer field, we giggle as the geese snap at each other’s tails among the tall grasses, and she feels more than ever like the sister I never had.

There’s a woman walking up the path in our direction. She catches my eye, but looking at her is like looking into a black hole. Some gravity pulls me toward her, but nothing returns in any shape I can name.

“Haru, you’re here,” she says. That’s my name. How does this stranger know my name? I scramble to my feet away from her.

“You haven’t called in weeks! Why don’t you call?” she goes on, scolding. Guilt surges reflexively in my chest. I retreat a step and collide with Sarah, a solid presence that steadies me as though I can slip into her skin and take root in the soil beneath her shoes.

But the next moment, she moves, letting me fall away from her. She steps forward toward the older woman, arms outstretched, with an ease that could only come from a lifetime of remembered recognition. “Don’t worry about her, Eomma,” says Sarah, her mouth wide in its beautiful, treacherous laugh-smile. “Can’t you see she’s forgotten you? I will be your daughter now.”

* * *

Ⓒ Cressida Roe