Elias Vance never boarded a starship. He found his purpose in the quiet of the archive. He became the Keeper of the Word, the guardian of the story. He taught others how to authenticate memory, not for trade, but for understanding. He presided over the weaving of their collective narrative, ensuring that the pain, the joy, the failure, and the triumph were all preserved, in all their chaotic, beautiful truth.
One evening, as he recorded the day's events, he came across a simple data-slate. On it was a single memory, donated by one of the first children born in First Hope. It was a memory of looking up at the stars, of feeling not fear or wonder, but a simple, profound sense of belonging.
Elias authenticated it. It was genuine. It was perfect.
He leaned back, looking out the window at the thriving city, at the lights pushing back the darkness. The memory trade was over. The future was being written, one honest, unedited moment at a time. The story was far from over, but the man who had fought for the right to remember could finally rest, knowing that the next chapters were in good hands.