On the night the town forgot how to sleep, Mira learned that memories make a sound when they leave. It started at 2:17 a.m., when every clock froze and every dog stopped barking mid-woof. The air tightened, like someone had pulled an invisible string through the streets. Mira, wide awake in her attic room, heard a faint chiming—soft as glass touched by a fingernail—drifting out of the walls. She followed the sound downstairs. The noise grew louder near the old rotary phone in the kitchen. The phone rang once. Not twice. Once. That was wrong enough to make her answer. “Hello?” she said. Her own voice replied, younger. Brighter. “I don’t want to forget this,” it said. The line went dead. Before she could process that, the chiming poured through the window. Outside, glowing threads were lifting out of people’s houses—thin, shimmering strands like spider silk made of moonlight. They drifted upward and snapped softly as they vanished into the sky. Mira recognized one immediately. It was blue and smelled faintly of cinnamon. Her grandmother’s kitchen. Mira ran outside barefoot. The street was full of people in pajamas, staring upward, reaching for the light like they could grab it back. “What’s happening?” someone shouted. A man sank to his knees. “I can’t remember my wife’s laugh.” Panic rippled through the crowd. Then Mira noticed something stranger. Some houses were dark. No light. No threads. She ran to the darkest one she knew—the abandoned library at the edge of town. Inside, dust hung thick, and the chiming was deafening. The shelves pulsed with light. Books were trembling, leaking memories instead of words. At the center of the room stood a tall, impossible figure made of clock hands and shadows. “You’re late,” it said kindly. “What are you?” Mira asked, voice shaking. “I am the Collector,” it said. “Your town has exceeded its memory limit.” “That’s not a thing.” “It is now.” Mira clenched her fists. “You can’t take everything.” “I don’t,” the Collector said. “I take what is unloved.” Mira thought of her grandmother’s kitchen, abandoned after the funeral. The recipes no one made anymore. The stories no one asked for. “Then stop,” Mira said. “I’ll remember.” The Collector tilted its head. “One person cannot hold a town.” “Watch me.” She grabbed the nearest book. It burst open—not with text, but with sound and smell and warmth. Laughter. Rain on hot pavement. First kisses. Regrets. She staggered under the weight of it. Her nose bled. Her knees buckled. Still, she held on. The chiming grew frantic. The Collector stepped back. “If you keep these, you will never forget anything,” it warned. “Every grief. Every mistake.” Mira smiled through the tears. “Good.” The sky cracked with a sound like a bell breaking. Morning came abruptly. Clocks ticked again. Dogs finished barking. The townspeople woke with full memories—and one strange new certainty. There was a girl in the attic who remembered things for them. Years later, when Mira finally grew old, the chiming returned—soft and grateful. As her last breath left her, the light rose gently this time, heavy with love. And for the first time, it didn’t vanish.