The Preserver Leaves No Fingerprints

The Weight of Unsent Rain On the Scandal of Remaining Intact

The humidity in the chamber is precisely forty-two percent, a figure I have come to loathe with the passion of a jilted lover who has discovered the beloved is merely a mirror. I stand before the preservation unit, my hand resting on the cold, brushed steel of the door handle. The metal is smooth, unyielding, and utterly devoid of fingerprints. This is the first requirement of the archive: that the preserver must not leave a trace. If I leave a trace, I am not preserving the memory; I am contaminating it with the messy, decaying evidence of my own existence.

The application for preservation was complete. The department confirmed this. The complete application could not be processed because the processing function had been transferred to the annex during the reorganisation. The annex had since been consolidated with the preliminary intake office. The preliminary intake office required, before accepting any completed application, a preliminary eligibility assessment. The preliminary eligibility assessment was conducted by the department to which the application had originally been submitted. I have filled out the form seventeen times. Each time, the ink is fresh, the paper is crisp, and the memory is perfect. Each time, the form is rejected for a clerical error that does not exist.

I open the door. The air inside is still, heavy with the scent of ozone and old paper. Rows of glass cases stretch into the darkness, each containing a single, sealed memory. They are not memories as the world understands them - fuzzy, emotional, prone to distortion. These are perfect. They are crystalline structures of pure data, stripped of the noise of feeling. In Case 402, there is the day my mother laughed. In Case 403, the smell of rain on hot asphalt. In Case 404, the exact shade of blue in my father’s eyes. They are beautiful. They are dead.

I reach for Case 402. The glass is cold. Inside, the image of my mother’s face is frozen in a moment of unblemished joy. There is no sweat on her brow, no twitch of a muscle, no hint of the fatigue that must have preceded or followed this second. It is a lie. It is a perfect, terrible lie. I know this because I have tried to recall the real moment, and I cannot. The real moment is gone, erased by the act of preservation. To save it, I had to kill it. To keep it safe, I had to remove the vulnerability that made it alive.

The appeals process began with a preliminary review to determine whether the matter was eligible for appeal. I asked whether there was an appeals process for the preliminary review. I was told that this was a good question. The official smiled. He was helpful. He was patient. He was committed to the proper procedure. He did not understand that the procedure was the problem. The procedure was not a path to the outcome; it was the outcome. The deferral was the decision.

I look at my hand. The skin is pale, thin, almost translucent. I can see the blue veins beneath, mapping a territory that is becoming less and less familiar. Who am I? I am the archivist. I am the one who preserves. But if I preserve everything, what is left to preserve me? The memories are not mine. They never were. They are artifacts, placed here by a self that no longer exists. The self that existed is the one that felt the rain, that laughed until it hurt, that loved and lost and decayed. That self is gone, sacrificed on the altar of perfection.

I understand, finally, that the door is not locked because a locked door could be an obstacle, and an obstacle could be identified, and an identified obstacle could be the subject of an appeal. The open door is better. The open door suggests that I can leave. But I cannot leave. To leave is to admit that the preservation was a failure. To admit failure is to admit that the memories are not perfect. And if they are not perfect, they are not safe. And if they are not safe, they will decay. And if they decay, I will have to feel them. And if I feel them, I will have to be real.

I cannot be real. Being real is too painful. Being real is too messy. Being real is to be subject to time, to change, to death. Here, in the archive, I am safe. I am static. I am perfect. I am nothing.

I pick up the pen. The ink is black. The paper is white. The memory is perfect. I begin to write.