The Two Threads of Memory

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As the fog spread that morning over the hollow like wool spread out, the Button Gatekeeper heard the world crack. Not loudly, more like a fine crack in an old box. He stroked the buttons of his waistcoat—each a memory—and felt one vibrate. The greenish one with the carved figure eight; it belonged to the early days, to the slate on which two names had been written before one was erased. He followed the vibration to the bed of moss, where forgotten things lay: a rusty tin, two screws grinning like teeth. At the edge of a grassy island stood someone, both strange and familiar—wild hair, ear flaps, and a waistcoat full of buttons. His eyes were the color of the morning after the rain. "You're late," the stranger said, smiling. "I've been looking for you," the Button Gatekeeper replied. "Ever since the figure eight started shaking." The stranger raised two fingers, holding a fine, strong thread. "I am Zerrik, the Pathweaver. I hear the threads others drop and weave them back into the paths." They looked at each other like mirrors of equal depth. The Button Gatekeeper noticed Zerrik's vest: his buttons gleamed like nodes, each sending rays into the ground or sky. "Your buttons are stories," said Zerrik, "mine are paths. But paths without stories lead nowhere, and stories without paths gather dust." They walked through the hollow. In the thinning mist, loose shadows hung like threads. Sometimes Zerrik leaped forward and pulled you back—a girl beneath a window remembering why she wanted to sing, an old man finding his bearings while searching for a keychain. "What happened to you?" asked the Button Gatekeeper. "I was afraid of losing myself," said Zerrik. "When people replaced buttons with swipes, memories were recorded instead of held. I heard the threads screaming. I thought I had to choose: stay with you or follow the paths." The Button Gatekeeper remembered nights clutching the vest to his chest as if holding someone gone forever. That afternoon, they reached the source of the morning's rift: a clearing with a willow doll tied with branches, wearing only two old buttons. A thin crack split her chest and spread to the ground. "The world bursts at its button seams," the Button Gatekeeper murmured. "When memory breaks free, paths dissolve." Zerrik placed a spike against the rift. "It's bigger than we are, but perhaps we'll do for a start." They worked in silence. The Button Gatekeeper touched his oldest buttons—wordless birthday songs, whistles that led one home. Zerrik threaded loose threads through them. The willow doll began to hum, then sing, as if having a heartbeat. The rift stopped growing. "We can hold him," said Zerrik. "But we must part. You stay with the stories; I'll collect the ways. We'll meet again when the Eight trembles."