All My Tomorrows by J. Grace Pennington

A down on his luck man in his twilight comes into a "memory storage facility" to trade his remaining days for the chance to re-experience his "last good day."

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"All My Tomorrows" by J. Grace Pennington

It was Misha’s first day minding the shop, and already she’d broken the fifth rule. Always lock the door immediately. When you had the most valuable merchandise in the universe, you had to take the utmost precautions.

She hadn’t meant to disobey. It was just that when she had walked in she forgot everything and stood for a full five minutes just inside the door, feeling the lights and colors reflected in the expression she felt on her face. She knew it by heart, but never had it been hers, to care for and manage and watch over.

A jolt shook the entire shop, causing her to stumble and clutch at one of the file cabinets for support. It seemed to jolt her memory as well, and she jumped as though she’d been slapped, and double bolted the rusty metal door shut.

The rumble subsided, and quiet settled upon the shop again. Turning back around, she saw that the drawer she’d gripped to stay upright had come open slightly, and she pushed it closed and latched it. It was one of the older drawers, and the latch was brown and gritty feeling, and when she pulled her hand away, there was a film of orange rust on her fingers. She started to wipe it down the front of her dress, then stopped herself and just rubbed her fingers together to brush it off.

“That one must be almost gone,” she murmured, and then listened to the very faint echo of her words. She’d never been alone here before. Turning her head, she surveyed the long rows and columns of drawers, reaching far into the darkness, everywhere except where the thick aluminum silicate glass window spanned several feet of one wall, looking out into space. Drawers everywhere, each barely bigger than her hand, reaching so far and so high that she had no hope of ever seeing the end of them. Some of the cabinets were so rusty they were crumbling, and some were still the dull but polished maroon that was standard for the GCC. On each drawer was a name, burned into it by the computer system, and the words “Galactic Cabinet Company” with a phone number. Her gaze followed the sturdy black cables that connected every single drawer to the processor far above her on the ceiling. She couldn’t see where they were plugged in, it was so high up that the darkness hid it, but tiny lights from the computer sparkled like stars.

Once as a child, she’d tried to describe the shop to a friend, and the friend had commented, “It sounds terribly dull.” Then, she knew she’d never try to describe it again.

No matter how tight the GCC made the cabinets, they couldn’t keep the colors, the light, the darkness, the smells, the temperatures, the tastes, the emotions, and the sounds from escaping through the cracks. There was no greater thrill than walking by a drawer and feeling a sliver of anger escape, along with a slight scent of roast beef and a dash of warmth. Sometimes she’d catch a snippet of wonder and beauty, tinted with purple and flavored with mint. Other times, a shiver would shake her, and she’d find that she was cold, and would look to see a dark mist seeping from one of the drawers, along with a stench that tasted somehow hollow. Better yet was when a sudden burst of every color would flow freely and sparkle up to the ceiling, accompanied with every feeling that existed all rolled into one. Those moments were always Misha’s favorites, because they were so beautiful. Then her father had explained that that meant someone was dying, and it made her sad, too, but still happy, because it was the best thing in the universe.

And then it would be time to replace that drawer. New people were always being born, and an old rusty drawer would be shipped out, and a new maroon one would come in, ready to be burned with a new name, and filled with new files. Except sometimes, a maroon drawer would go out, and that made Misha sad, because somewhere, somehow, someone had lost their child.