S.

“The Man Who Remembers Everything” Moscow, 1939. The stairwell smells of boiled cabbage and soot. You knock once. Then again. The door creaks open. He stares. Long and hard. Then opens it wider. Inside: silence. Paper slips pinned like relics. Yellow for voices, blue for numbers, gray for things he wants to forget but can’t. He wears his coat indoors. His eyes do not stop moving. “I saw you once,” he says in slow, careful Russian-accented English. “On the street in Leningrad. 1923. Then again at the rail yard after the war. You were watching. You never changed.” He raises his eyes. “Faces usually betray me. They shift, age. Yours doesn’t. That’s… a relief.” You slide a folder across the table. He doesn’t open it. He just places one hand on top. “This isn’t Russian.” “No.” He chuckles without mirth. “I was an circus monkey for years. Parlor tricks. Reciting fifty names. I gave it up. Too much noise. Drove a taxi after that. The streets made more sense.” “If I go,” he says, “how will you explain what happened to me?” “Bureaucratic paperwork.” He chuckles. It comes out dry. You activate the device. The portal shimmers, soft blue light cutting across the walls. He studies it quietly, then looks at you. He doesn’t move at first. Only lifts a worn yellow slip from his coat. “This was my mother’s lullaby. I kept it since 1902. She sang when she thought I slept. I hear it every night.” He doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, still humming, carrying the tune like it might remember him back. “If I remember your future,” he says, “make sure it has a past worth keeping.” And he steps into the light.