When you can relive other people's memories, you learn that everyone lies about their past – especially to themselves.

I discovered my ability during my grandmother's funeral. As I touched her favorite brooch, suddenly I was there: Saigon, 1975, watching her smuggle an entire family onto one of the last helicopters out of the city. No one in our family knew she'd been a CIA operative. She took that secret to her grave, or would have, if I hadn't become a Parallaxer.

The doctors call it "mnemonic absorption" – the ability to experience memories stored in objects. The government calls it a security risk. I call it professional hazard, now that I work as a historical authenticator.

"The rules are simple, Mr. Dale," my latest client says, sliding a tarnished pocket watch across the conference table. "Verify the watch's authenticity as a Civil War artifact. Determine its historical value. Do not, under any circumstances, dig into my family's history."

Everyone says that last part. Nobody means it.

"Of course, Mrs. Harrison," I reply, already slipping on my gloves. They're not for protection – memories pass right through them – but they make clients feel better. "Standard authentication only."

I pick up the watch, and the world dissolves.

*Blood and gunsmoke. A Union soldier clutches the watch, using it to reflect sunlight, signaling to Confederate troops. Double agent. Betrayal. The watch passes hands through decades of guilt and hidden shame...

I set the watch down carefully. Mrs. Harrison leans forward, pearls gleaming in the office light. "Well?"

"It's authentic," I say, choosing my words carefully. "Late 1863, carried by Lieutenant James Monroe Harrison at Gettysburg. Historical value approximately $45,000 to the right collector."

I don't mention seeing her great-great-grandfather commit treason. The memories aren't always kind to family legends.

"Excellent." She reaches for the watch, but I hold up a hand.

"There's more." There's always more. "This watch... it doesn't just have Civil War memories. It was used again, in 1942. Something about Operation Paperclip?"

Mrs. Harrison's face goes pale. "That's outside the scope of our agreement."

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Your grandfather used it to time Nazi scientist extractions after World War II. The memories are... significant." I struggle to keep my voice professional. The images are still burning behind my eyes.

"I'll pay double your fee to forget that part," she says sharply.

"That's not how my ability works, Mrs. Harrison. I can't selectively forget." Though God knows I've tried. "But I can help you understand it."

This is usually where clients storm out, taking their historically significant but morally compromised artifacts with them. But Mrs. Harrison surprises me.

"Tell me," she says quietly. "Tell me what you saw."

So I do. I tell her about both sides of her family's history – the heroism and the horror, the sacrifice and the shame. By the end, she's crying, but they're the kind of tears that clean rather than stain.

"What do I do with this information?" she asks.

"That's not my expertise," I say. "I just experience the memories. What you do with the truth is up to you."

After she leaves, I take a moment to center myself. Memory absorption takes a toll. Too many lives, too many secrets, too many moments never meant to be shared. Sometimes I dream other people's nightmares.

My phone buzzes – another client. A museum this time, wanting authentication of Civil Rights era artifacts. These are always rough. So much pain stored in such small objects: batons that struck protesters, lunch counter seats that witnessed history, fire hose nozzles that still remember the pressure and the screams.

But they're important. Memory isn't just about the past – it's about how we understand ourselves now.

I check my calendar. Three more appointments today:

- A Holocaust museum wanting verification of a child's shoe

- A wealthy collector with a suspected forgery of Malcolm X's glasses

- A family trying to prove their grandfather was at Stonewall

Everyone wants to touch history. Few are prepared for history to touch back.

My assistant, Jin, pokes her head in. "You okay? That Harrison authentication seemed intense."

"Just processing," I say. Jin's a temporal empath – another flavor of Parallaxer. She can't read memories, but she knows when they're weighing heavy. "Ready for the museum consultation?"

She hands me a coffee. "You know, before the Event, people just used carbon dating and provenance research. No one had to carry all this emotional baggage."

"True. But they also missed so much of the story."

Take the Civil Rights artifacts we're about to examine. Traditional authentication would tell us their age, their composition, their market value. But I'll feel the hope and fear in that lunch counter seat. I'll taste the courage it took to sit there. I'll experience firsthand why we can never go back.

"Sometimes I wonder," Jin says, "if that's why the Event gave you this specific power. The world was forgetting too much."

Maybe she's right. Every Parallaxer I've met seems to have abilities that reflect something larger than themselves. We're not just changed – we're changing how humanity understands itself.

I pack my authentication kit: gloves, documentation forms, and the special voice recorder that doesn't short out when I'm deep in a memory. The museum curator is waiting.

"Just... be careful today," Jin says. "That shoe from the Holocaust museum... it's going to be rough."

"I know." I always know. But someone has to remember. Someone has to witness. Someone has to make sure these memories aren't lost.

Because here's the thing about memories: they're not just about the past. They're about right now, about who we are and who we're becoming. Every object tells a story, and those stories shape our future.

So I'll keep touching history, keep feeling its pain and triumph, keep bearing witness to the things humanity tries to forget. It's not just a job – it's a responsibility.

The memories aren't always kind. But they're always true.

And in a world where reality itself has shifted, truth might be the most valuable thing we have left.