[ WP ] You live in a society where everyone is immortal , but slowly forgets their past lives . Over the centuries only the most meaningful memories remain . One day , a stranger notices you , saying they recognize you from a millennia ago .

`` Julian! Oh God, I never thought I'd see you again... not in a thousand years, I...'' 
 
 I could hear her shaking, sobbing, falling to her knees, and when I turned around, the moment graved itself into the vessels of my mind. I cradled her head in the crook of my arm- this right arm- and she bawled, and bawled, and I could only shake my head as her silver hair tossed and turned in her tears. And after a while, still as taut as a bowstring, she fell asleep in the shadow of the elm that used to grow there. 
 
 I brought her through the kitchen door and laid her down beside the fireplace. And I, I could tear my hair out, but the recollections never came. Have you ever lost a friend- perhaps, lost a lover? Autumns and autumns quench the pyre, but the embers ache. And- you must know, surely by now, that we forget things. We forget the forgetting. At the end, even the smoulders turn to ash. I could only look over her, shake my head, and feel the tears of a stranger at the corners of my eyes. 
 
 Where does a memory go, when time washes out its grains and bleaches its colours? Does it go with the river, down the mountain, where the grass withers in the winter? Is it buried in the snows, for one to paw at with frostbitten fingers? That night, I searched. I racked my brains. I tore up the floorboards and, finding only things to forget, I nailed them down again. 
 
 The cruelest tricks are the ones we play on ourselves. When she woke, it was to a kind sun and a cool breeze, and she looked at me and said, 
 
 `` Julian?'' 
 
 We forget, you see, and each morning, we can only gaze at the west where yesterday has gone. Whoever built this little earthen house must have felt the same. Nestled on the slope of a fjord by the Horn, it is... perhaps the terminus of one's resignation. After all, there is no pain for those who wake with children's eyes. 
 
 I do n't remember much of what happened afterwards. I see these trails in the grass, these pits in the wood of the table that my fingers recognize. Sometimes, I fancy that I've seen these clouds before. And I could tell you so much of the things I do! Five-petaled flowers that weep in the morning, double-backed horses that sputter and spit, and lands to the west, where we look, of stone-stepped pyramids and terraces of sun-baked brick. 
 
 And I can not forget that silver hair and those weeping eyes. I can not forget the shame and the guilt. I have forgotten why I left, but I remember why I came back. 
 
 I'm sorry you've had to wait for me. Under sun and sky, fog and snow, it must have been difficult to forget. But, again- in the shadow of the mountain, this abode is a resting-place for memories that one refuses to leave behind. Look at the sea before you! Can you hear the white-tailed eagle cry? How many dreams have you had of letting go? 
 
 I do n't pretend to be worthy of your memory, my love. But, if you've been waiting for me- let's go. 
 
 -~- 
 
 More at /r/whythecynic ( mostly old stuff, but hey! )
