Shelf Life
Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts. As for this story idea, it's just one of those things that occurs to you when you're not thinking about anything in particular. It's owed, I'm sure, to the library.
It's amazing how much of functioning in the world depends on memory.
People have to remember who they are and how the world functions, things that have happened in the past and things that are going to happen in the future. So much of one's personality depends almost completely on their experiences, and experiences are preserved through memory. Memory is so integral, in fact, that most just take it for granted. Memories are there and always will be there, barring some freak accident that causes amnesia—right?
Wrong.
Like so many other things, memories have a shelf life. They fade away, taint, lose much of what makes them what they are over time. Most people nowadays can't remember most things that happened to them as small children. It's what makes adults so out of touch with children and especially teenagers—as they can't remember, they can't relate. It's as simple as that.
They tell me that the Halls of Memory have stood like this for a long time.
See, that's where I come in.
This white hall, filled by its floor-to-vaulted-ceiling shelves of dusty, moth-eaten scrolls, contains all the personal memories of every living being that exists. It is empty, and silent, and smells faint and sweet like cedar and lace and fading perfume. None who do not work here are permitted to enter.
Me? My job… is to restore these memories, prevent them from becoming lost to the ravages of Time.
True Restorers are rare. They say they've looked for one for a long time. It's not so simple as, say, finding someone to be the Hierophant or the Dreamweaver. It takes more than just a creative heart or a giving soul.
But because I'm a witch, because the drawings I create possess the spark of life, I can do it.
It takes more than that. A Restorer has to have a strong sense of self, so as not to become lost in other people's lives, but not too strong, so that her "self" does not corrupt the fading memories any further. I am told to work very little until I have gotten used to life in this place, and even then to limit myself to a few hours at a time.
I don't mind it. The outside world has never been a welcoming place for me.
It might worry people if they heard it, but I've more than adapted to these cloistered walls: they feel more like a home to me than anything else has ever been. Maybe because I can no longer clearly remember anything that came before. When I decided to walk this path, the scrolls of my own memory were removed.
When I am not working, I draw what little I can remember. My own corner of the grand hall sports blurry watercolors of the past, painted with fond nostalgia and hung with care. I know that this place will eventually absorb all that I am, but so long as I have a few pieces of myself to remember "me" by, I don't mind it.
A Restorer is a witch who cares for the memories of others at the cost of her own.
By forsaking herself, she can grant the world its own "eternal time".
For where is eternity, but in memory?
It is a purpose I am satisfied with. And eventually, I will become part of this place… rather than being remembered, I will be a part of "eternity" itself.
But, see, that's okay with me.
I'm nobody. I've never been whole or a part of anything. So as long as I can touch the world in some way, it's okay… it's okay if it all ends with nothing left in my hands.
Owari.