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The Queen of the Underverse - Interlude - Tales of the Memory Market

Updated: 4 days ago

A Note from Eve: I am Eve. You have and haven’t met me yet. I am part of the earliest stories ever told. Rebecca hasn’t met me yet, even though we have in a way. But I’m getting ahead of myself. You’ll find out more in Chapter 42 — no peeking.


I’ve interrupted Rebecca’s story to bring you another tale of the Underverse, one that recently fell into my protection here at the Unwritten Library.


Still, I should warn you: a Narrator has been lurking around and making changes. You should watch out for him. He is unreliable.


—Yuunral Naretar: Is she gone?

Previously on The Queen of the Underverse


Rebecca’s journey through the Underverse has been a rollercoaster: a pink sun, a blue moon, symbiotic clothing, talking houses, a sarcastic statue, a dying queen, and a dash of medieval steampunk. She’s an astronaut who stepped through the wrong door, and all she wants is to go home.


Now—A brief tale from the Memory Market™ — Where Memories Are Made Fresh™


Ye saga continues…


Tales from the Memory Market were never written down. They can’t be. The Memory Market Council wouldn’t allow it. However, they can be found in the Unwritten Library located on the eastern shores of the Fallen Sea. There are over 1000 volumes. The following tale is from a collection of stories by a Memory Market Merchant called Auntie Myne. She likes to think she’s being kind.


This is her last story before she disappeared.


Simon Makes the Trade

Collected by Auntie Myne


Simon passed—all the noise and grit and motion in Amberford —until the cobblestone underfoot gave way to something stranger: a plaza of polished bone-white stone, etched faintly with names he couldn’t read.


This was the entrance to the Memory Market. The pink sun had set, and twilight was firmly emplaced. The moon, Thalune, hadn’t risen yet.


Foggy street scene with glowing lamps, darkened medieval buildings, and a decorative archway. "MEMORY MARKET" is visible on the ground.
The Bone Plaza – Entrance to the Memory Market

Here, the city shifted.


The architecture sharpened — buildings shaped like half-remembered dreams, their bricks irregular and shifting in color depending on how he blinked. The Memory Market used Gas lamps instead of the crystal lamps, which flickered with candlelight and didn’t cast shadows. A delicate golden mist hovered near the ground, clinging to ankles like ankle-deep fog made of sighs.


And the vendors…


They were human. Or had been. Some wore veils, others masks shaped like animals, and a few let their faces show, worn and kind and a little too still. Their carts and stalls held things Simon could almost name — glass globes, ribbons, old coins — but each object tugged at him, like it had been part of his long ago.


A man in a topcoat held out a closed tin box.


“The last lie you believed,” he said softly. “Name your price.”


Another merchant, a hunched woman with paper-thin skin, offered a sealed bottle filled with warm light.


“Your happiest hour. Just one.”


A vendor offered him a shoebox. “Your least embarrassing moment,” he whispered. “Very rare.


Simon clutched his satchel tightly. He could feel his family picture — a solid memory, a thing not for sale.


He entered the Market.


In Amberford’s Memory Market, everything had value.


Especially the things you weren’t willing to give up.


He passed by the merchants at the entrance. He had been told those were for the tourists anyway. He wanted, no, needed, a Memory Merchant—those with capital letters in their names. He hoped he could, with what he had, finally belong.


He came to the stall, which looked promising, draped in velvet and shattered frames. The words ‘The Family Archive’ glowed above in some weird neon-like pattern, like a trapped will-o’-the-wisp. A proper Memory Merchant sat in a comfortable upholstered chair, dressed in gray robes tinged with purple.


It was a woman with white hair streaked with color that seemed to be a remnant of a memory. Her skin was fair but not pale. Her eyes held a slight smile that wasn’t unkind as she looked at Simon. She wore a handwritten tag that read Auntie Myne - Memory Merchant.


Elderly woman with a badge, "Auntie Myne," sits in a cozy room. Glowing text reads "The Family Archive." Warm, nostalgic atmosphere.
“The hardest part is not the trade, it’s remembering what you gave away.”

“First time to the Memory Market?” She asked.


Simon shook his head and pulled out a family photo from his satchel. His last untouched memory. He had already planned what to say, but somehow, the words slipped from his mind. He showed her the picture and felt his cheeks turn red.


Auntie Myne smiled and gently pressed, “Do you want love? Or just someone who remembers you?”


Simon took a deep breath, looked at the photo, and said, “I just want to belong.”


“Come inside and I’ll make you a cup of tea.” Auntie Myne got up gracefully and beckoned Simon in.


She pushed the flap aside, revealing a small, cozy room with a kettle boiling on a stove.


It resembled a family kitchen, featuring two chairs around a basic wooden table, with tiny dried flowers pinned to the wall—a small pantry stocked with various foods added to the warm and inviting atmosphere.


A framed embroidery wall hanging displayed the stitched words: “Family Memories are Made Here™”.


She focused on the stove and kettle until steam appeared, then retrieved two mismatched cups with saucers and poured tea. It had a scent reminiscent of forgotten birthdays.


“No, don’t snort the memory, it leaves a buzz.” She warned Simon as she offered him sugar.


“Now, let’s look at this photo of yours,” she said, and Simon handed it over.


“I see this is your family, and you no longer belong.”


Simon nodded and looked down.


“But you did belong at one time?”


Simon’s words were barely audible. “Yes.”


“Hmm.” She turned the photo over in her hand, looking back and forth at him and the image. “Then you’ll need a root memory.” She looked at the pantry. “Not a flower. Root it is.


She went to the pantry, rearranged some of the items inside, and then said, “Bingo!”


She sat down and placed a jar in front of him. It read, “Summer Light / Found Family / Suburbia Variant 7B.”


Simon stared at it. Unsure what to do.


“What do you call yourself?” Auntie Myne asked after a moment of awkward silence.


“Simon,” he answered without taking his eyes off the jar.


“Well, Simon, I don’t usually show kindness or friendliness about merchandise. Yet, you’ve somehow touched me,” she said with a gentle smile. Then, she added, “I want to help you,” and reached out to take his hand.


Simon looked at it, unsure.


“You want to belong. You want to feel like you mean something to someone. You want to be home.”


Simon began to tear up.


“This memory can help with that. It won’t fix it. However, it will help ease you.”


Simon reached for her hand. He whispered, “Thank you.”


They held hands like that for a few moments, and Auntie Myne picked up his photo and put it in her pocket. She slid the jar over to him.


“Just open it and inhale.”


Simon took a deep breath, opened the jar, and inhaled.


His sister, how could he forget! She was teasing him again. She always teased him. It was annoying—the family BBQ, the smells, and the laughter. Their parents were laughing at their antics. This was years and years ago. Good times.



Yesterday, his sister called out to him, “You’re back! How was Amberford?” She remained her usual bright and cheerful self. Slightly older than him, she never let him forget it.


“You’ve been away too long. I think you’ve gotten shorter,” He laughed. He was always taller than her.


Where are mom and dad? Simon could hear himself say the words. His mouth felt a little odd.


“Oh, they’ll be along any minute now. I’m so glad you’re home. They’ve missed you, too!”


A sandsinger flew past the kitchen window, catching the summer light.


The kitchen?


“Yes, silly, we’re in the kitchen. I was going to surprise you with your favorite meal. I just put some bread down for toasting. I’ve got the oven’s crystals set to 250, so it should be ready soon.


Oh my, is it what I think it is? He could smell the cinnamon.


“Yep, Drake Surprise.”


“Oh, look, there’s a sandsinger.” She pointed at the window. A sandsinger flew past the kitchen window.


Yes, I saw it too.


“Hello, Simon.” His mother entered the room. No, wait, it was Father, right?


“Hi Mom! I’m baking for Simon!” His sister gleefully looked at the oven.


“Oh, Lyra, bless you, dear. Your sister missed you so. We all didn’t we, dear?”


Ok, this was definitely his father. “Glad you’re home, son. It wasn’t the same without you. Well, look at that sandsinger. They can make an awful racket.”


A sandsinger flew past the kitchen window.


Isn’t that the same one?


“What do you mean, honey? His mom looked at his face with a concerned expression.


The sandsinger keeps flying past the window, like it’s doing the same thing over and over.


Well, it’s probably got nest somewhere close by. We’ll have to find it, won’t we, son? It’ll keep the neighbors up at night with its racket.” His father came over and ruffled his hair.


Simon felt himself blushing. Dad, stop that, I’m not eleven anymore.


“Stuff and nonsense, you’ll always be eleven to me. Now what’s that I’m smelling? Cinnamon?”


“Simon’s favorite.” His sister said proudly. “Drake Surprise, and it’s done! Oh, I think the toast is a bit overdone.” She looked sadly at Simon. “Sorry, Simon.”


No worries, Sis. I’m sure everything will be fine. Simon could sense that something was different here. He wasn’t sure.


A sandsinger flew past the kitchen window.


There’s that blasted bird. Simon said with a touch of annoyance.


His mom grabbed his hand. “Stop, honey, you’re home. Sit around the table and eat with us. Your sister went to a lot of trouble.”


Simon sighed, Yes, Mom. She led him to the kitchen table.


His sister was beaming with pride as she dished out the treat with the slightly burnt toast. She sat down, and they looked at him.


“Go on,” His sister said. Jubilation on her face. “Taste and let me know how it is.”


Simon lifted the silver spoon she gave him and pulled a bite to his mouth. It wouldn’t go in.


“Well,” she said.


Simon tried again, and he couldn’t open his mouth.


He reached his hands up to his face.


He had no mouth.


He looked up at everyone for help.


“Oh, I’m so glad you liked it, Simon.” They all smiled at him and began to eat.


A sandsinger flew backwards past the kitchen window.



Simon stumbled out of the stall. It was daytime, and the pink sun was high in the late morning sky. Auntie Myne was sitting in her chair. Simon stared at her.


“You remembered, didn’t you, Simon?” She said sadly.


“You could have told me,” Simon said. He was remembering a sibling and parents he never had. A place he never lived.


“I couldn’t.” She stared at him with a kind smile. “I’ve never seen one like you before. You nearly broke my heart. That takes a lot. I almost let you keep it. But that’s not the kind of story this is. Besides, some truths only make sense after you remember them.”


A figure walked up behind Simon. He wore an apron with a stylized farm on it. A logo underneath Memory Farm–Memories Made Fresh™. He had an official-looking badge pinned to his apron–Memory Farm Reclaim Unit.


Simon turned around and crumpled.


“Please, I’ve lived. I wanted this. I’m…”


He searched for the words that might change their minds.


“I heard them laugh. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?”


“What did they look like, Simon?” She said sadly.


Simon sat there, unable to say anything.


Auntie Myne continued with sincerest sympathy, “You were lived. You were wanted. For a time. But the story… the memory is over.”


“I wanted to lie to you,” Auntie Myne whispered. “Just once. Tell you it mattered. Tell you you were real. But the Market doesn’t deal in lies—only dreams. And you’re not the first to fade with your arms outstretched.”


The Memory Farm Collector held a vibrant Gem in one hand, its pale green hues shimmering with veins of silver and orange, like threads of fire catching the light and captivating both dark and light. He then placed his other hand on Simon.


“You’ll be useful again.” The Collector said.


Man holding glowing brain-shaped object labeled "Memory Farm" in dark room. Woman sits in background. Hands reach toward object. Mystic mood.
You'll be useful again.

Simon’s last memory is of a warm kitchen.

A sister laughing.

A smell of toast.

Then he’s gone.


“That was the oldest Memory Orphan I’ve ever seen. And persistent too. Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” Auntie Myne asked the Collector


“I can’t really say. I collect them.”


“It’s a shame it wasn’t younger. We could have gotten a lot more use out of it.” She said wistfully.


“As you say, ma’am. I need to take this to the farm.” He held up the Gem, now glowing brightly. “We have an order for a firedrake, and frankly, we could use this.”


She waved him away.


Auntie Myne sat in her chair watching the sun and the clouds drift.


These Memory Orphans, the ones who try to rewrite their endings? They always crack. But one of these days, someone might get away with it. Wouldn’t that be something?”


Her laughter could be heard echoing all the way to the bone plaza.


A bird flies outside a window with a blurred teal background. Inside, a table holds a slice of bread on a plate and a dark mug. Moody atmosphere.
There's that blasted bird.

––To be continued



Next Time on The Queen of the Underverse


Rebecca finally enters Amberford — solid, real, and built of brick and mortar. Strangeness still lurks around the corner, but this time the city feels alive. She’s drawn into the family of the Orphanage run by Shean. Meanwhile, the darkness closes in…



© 2025 Donnavon Evans


October 7, 2025

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© donovan evans aka foto dono - all images and text

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