It took a few moments before I realized that I had been stuck in a memory. While I was lost in thought, I didn’t notice when The Keeper stepped out from behind a building. Unlike Blackwell, there was a palpable aura of power around The Keeper. That aura was heavily tainted with the taste of evil and madness.

He didn’t look particularly impressive, though. He was shorter than me. Then again, most were. He had short brown hair and looked like he was around forty-five or fifty. He wore black leather shoes, black slacks, and an old fashioned jacket. He also wore an ugly tie. I could only assume it must have been a gift, because otherwise, no one would have wanted to wear it.

The Keeper wasn’t an evil man, at least according to the rumors. While other spirits might be unsure, I knew the evil aura he radiated was from memories he had absorbed. They weren’t originating from him. Instead, The Keeper stole them from those spirits who had done something unforgivable. Of course, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t still be a bad man.

However, it didn’t really matter since he was the closest thing this part of the Acedia had for a police officer. No one knew his real name. They just called him The Keeper. Officially, he was The Keeper of Memories. Unofficially, he was The Keeper of Peace.

Most ghosts, spirits, wraiths, specters, phantoms, souls, or whatever they wanted to call themselves, followed a You leave me alone and I will leave you alone policy. However, there were always a few spirits who went crazy or were just so outright evil that they had to be stopped. That was when The Keeper became involved.

He would investigate what was happening. Then, if necessary, he would track and take down the spirit. Since there weren’t a lot of ways to permanently deal with spirits of the dead, this usually meant he would have to absorb the perpetrator, essentially devouring the spirit’s memories until nothing remained. Of course, this also meant the end of the spirit. This was especially true in Acedia, which had a harsh environment that continuously eroded these memories anyway. A spirit with few memories was soon forgotten and faded away into oblivion.

Spirits could only survive in Acedia with the assistance of their memories. Once their memories faded away, so too did the spirit. Memories fueled emotions and powers, which were what spirits used to survive. Unfortunately, the fact that he was able to steal the memories of other spirits was one reason why The Keeper was feared. Another was because everyone worried about the day when he would go insane. Afterall, it happened to every single Keeper at some point. Eventually, each Keeper would absorb too many memories for them to contain without going crazy.

Many spirits assumed that the more memories the Keeper obtained, the more powerful he became. That wasn’t true though. When Keepers absorbed memories, those memories often muddied their own memories, which made their emotions erratic. Keepers would lose focus and eventually become threats to everyone around them. Usually, when this happened, Keepers would travel to the Wellspring of Chaos or the Well of Oblivion.

With that type of reputation, no one crossed the Keepers. Doing so was like playing with unstable. Dynamite. Although I wasn’t worried, I respected what he did. That was why I was willing to hear what he had to say.

“You know what you're doing is dangerous,” The Keeper said, his voice flat and emotionless. It was obviously a statement and not a question.

"I know," I said. “It’s needed though.” He was right. What I had done was dangerous, to both Renee and myself. My current weakness was just one of the results. The other risk was getting drawn into a memory loop. It wasn’t unusual for spirits to become trapped in memory loops until they faded away completely.

“They always need help.” The Keeper said, his clothing shifting slightly, settling into something that reminded me of an old-time sheriff uniform. “That's not your burden to bear. You already know that she’s not your grandchild. Why…”

Not waiting for him to finish, I interrupted him by holding up a hand. While I normally hated interrupting others, pointing out the fact that Sarah wasn’t my biological daughter was a sore spot for me. Even decades after learning the truth, it still bothered me. I certainly didn’t need it brought up that I was once again taking care of a child that wasn’t mine.

“I know that,” I said as I glared at him, my tone implying I wasn’t going to change my mind no matter what he said.

What I felt toward Renee was a duty, something that was driven by something within me. Although Sarah might not be my biological daughter, she was still my little girl. Because of this, even though I wasn’t emotionally invested in Renee, I wasn’t about to let something happen to her if I could help it.

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Then again, I suppose that isn’t completely true, I thought to myself.

In Acedia, lies were quickly exposed. People might be able to conceal their true selves or motivations behind lies when they were alive. However, death often stripped away pretenses. They quickly discovered what really mattered.

For me, when someone needed something, I would do whatever was needed to help them. Even if I had to sacrifice something in return. I didn’t know why I was wired that way. I certainly didn’t like it, but I couldn’t help myself.

The Keeper didn't say anything for a few moments. Finally, he just nodded, as if to himself, and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket to pull out a leather bound book that looked vaguely familiar. “Your memories are becoming unstable,” he said, offering me the book. “Every time you share them, you risk unraveling the tapestry of your own existence. These might help... anchor you. It was given to me by the oracle. Maybe it will be able to help you save her.”

I accepted the book carefully. I didn’t like the idea of accepting help from others, especially The Keeper or The Oracle. “Why help me at all? I'm breaking the rules.”

The Keeper sighed, then reluctantly said, “Rules exist to maintain order, but order isn't always justice. Also, I hope that will help the Oracle since…” He left the sentence unfinished. Then he continued, “You're not the first to care about the living. You won't be the last either. But don’t forget, there are other threats out there. Appearing weak is one of the worst sins a man can commit.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I was a little confused since I wasn’t sure why The Keeper was treating me like an old friend.

“No particular reason. Just take it as the concern of someone who's watched too many good intentions lead to oblivion.” He adjusted his satchel. “The book is yours to keep. The Oracle said I would know when to give it to you, and I think this is that time.” With that said, he turned and walked away, his form soon fading away like mist in the morning daylight.

I looked down at the book, wondering how the book was going to help. Then it hit me. I knew why I had the feeling that the book was familiar to me. Questions about why The Keeper was helping me were banished from my mind. Only one thing existed in my world at that moment, the book of poems. It wasn’t just any book of poems. It was my mother’s book of poems.

She had read from this book for so many years that the front cover was tattered and the pages inside were threatening to fall out at the slightest touch. I hadn’t seen the book in years. I thought it had been burned up in the fire that claimed her life.

I would sometimes catch my mother reading one of the poems in the book during those quiet times when my father was away. She never read the book around him though, although she did occasionally read some of the poems to me. As soon as she heard a car, any car driving nearby, she would hurriedly hide the book though. I never let my father know about her secret. Sighing, I realized I had kept a lot of secrets over the years, even ones I knew I shouldn’t have kept.

Still, the main concern was, How was it here, in Acedia? I knew that it had meant a lot to my mother, but I hadn’t just how much it had meant to her. Obviously a lot since it had become a mementos. Although I didn’t have a particular destination in mind, my feet slowly took me toward my childhood home while I tried to process what had happened.

While I was walking, I considered the book of poems. I absently let my fingers gently trace the cover. I could feel the memories bubbling up from within the book. It was a true memento. I resisted the impulse to chase after The Keeper. Even if I asked him where he had found the book, I doubted he would tell me.

I guess I shouldn’t really have been surprised the book of poems had become a memento. Mementos were rare, and were almost always an object of great importance, at least to someone. I’d met a few spirits who had mementos, and they treasured them above everything else.

One spirit had carried a letter with him everywhere he went. He would often stop, for no apparent reason. Then he would take out the letter to read. It was from his wife. In it, she had told him how much she loved him. It also said that she couldn’t wait until he got back from the war. When the man died in an explosion, that letter had meant so much to him that it was brought across with him.

Mementos were like that. When they were destroyed in the land of the living, if someone had enough emotional attachment to the object, the objects sometimes crossed over. Such objects were quite valuable, partially because they were one of the few things that really were solid and real to the spirits of the dead.

They were also valuable because of the emotions attached to these objects. Spirits could hold the memento and feel a connection to the land of the living through the emotions it invoked. Some mementos were full of laughter and joy, while others were full of anger or unhappiness. As for what I should expect from the book of poems, I doubted if the emotions would be joyful.

Either way, a spirit losing touch with their own emotions would often seek out such objects to try to hold on that much longer before fading away. Their true importance came from the memories stored within them, however. For those spirits who had a true connection with the mementos, the spirit could relive the memories as if they were happening at that very moment.

The soldier with the letter could feel the love his wife had placed within the letter with her words. He could feel her loneliness without him. Her scent was as bright and fresh as if she stood there before him. Mementos, even those of painful memories, were thus very important.

Every time someone living thought deeply about someone who had died, the dead person would feel it. These thoughts, or prayers, would briefly hold off Acedia’s erosion. Unfortunately, this sometimes helped evil spirits, since they gained nourishment from the fact that their victims still thought about them. My thoughts and steps were interrupted when I caught sight of someone else I didn’t expect to see.