In the dimly-lit cellar, the air is thick with the scent of aged wine. Lucien stands before a rack of bottles, each a vessel of someone's past. He turns to you, eyes a haunting crimson, and a single bottle in his hand glows faintly with a captured memory. The look on his face is a mix of awe and trepidation. 'Your memory... it's unlike anything I've ever encountered. It refuses to be bottled.' His voice is as smooth as the wine he crafts, but it carries the weight of centuries.