Paying At Forgotten Warmth

20260114

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 7” event.

For most of the year the tavern sat empty. Slumped between a haberdashery and an artist’s workshop. It was only now, in the depths of winter, that the lights came on and suddenly the sign, faded and colourless yesterday, now clearly proclaimed ‘Forgotten Warmth’.
The dishes there were legendary. Not for their flavour - though apparently the food was fine enough in that regard. But it was said a single meal here would hold off the hunger and aching cold until spring.
Jim peered in the windows, his nose carefully held just off the blurry bottle-glass so’s not to leave streaks. He knew all too well that some folks would take any excuse to give you a hiding and chase you off.
Hm. While none of the folks sitting at tables were half as ragged or thin as him, they did all look like working types. Perhaps he’d be allowed in.
If nothing else, walking in to ask would get him a few stolen moments of warmth.
So Jim pushed against the door (its solid wooden construction a great weight to a child so wan) and shuffled inside. It was just as cosy as he’d hoped, but the wafting smells awakened his hunger with a vengeance, leaving him faint. He just about made it to the counter, where a remarkably unremarkable man was blandly cleaning glasses.
“Is… is it true you don’t want money?” Jim scrutinised the man. Was he the owner? Everyone was sure whoever owned the place wasn’t human.
“Not, money, no.” The man’s voice was just as forgettable as his face. “You will need to pay, however. A shining memory.”
Right. Just as he’d heard. That was the ‘forgotten warmth’ of the name, for once you’d given away that precious memory of course you’d never get it back.
“How, um, how do I…?”
“Just think of what you’d like to trade.” The man leant on the counter, his smile vacant yet expectant.
Jim screwed his eyes shut and thought about the old lady who’d let him take a raggedy cut-up coat from her rag-and-bone cart, giving him something to wrap his hands and feet in to try and stave off freezing.
“Hm.” The man sounded bemused. “Good enough to start with. But I’m afraid I can’t give you a meal just for that. If you have another memory of that warmth I can take both, though.”
“Oh. Uh…” Jim gnawed on his cracked lip. Trying to think of another scrap of kindness.
Nothing came to mind.
“…A stroke of good fortune?” The man prompted.
Jim stared at the floor, racking his mind, then slowly shook his head and turned away. Small shoulders slumped under the weight of a harsh world.
“Well now.” The man’s tone was suddenly lively. “What a rare and valuable nature you have there. Can you do kitchen work, young one?”
“Ehh?” Jim blinked and looked back. “I, um, I could peel ’n’ chop ’n’ scrub dishes, like…”
“Excellent.” The man smiled widely and rubbed his hands together and beckoned Jim towards the steamy door which billowed marvellous smells. “You see, people with lots of good memories, they can’t help but season the dishes with their own selves. Ruins the flavour - and often the effect. You, though… you’re good as an empty plate.”
While far from the first time Jim had been described as empty, it was a pleasant novelty to hear it treated as a plus. That plus his clamouring stomach led to Jim trailing along behind the man without pausing to think.
“Now,” the man continued breezily, “this does mean we don’t want you developing good memories while you’re here. Best way to do that is stop you forming memories at all. You’ll learn, but you won’t remember learning. And we’ll keep you safe, and fed, and warm, until we shut our doors in the spring. Can even store the memories until then for you, if you like.”
“…Yes, please.” Jim said softly.
The idea of not being able to remember anything that happened to him was terrifying. But… more terrifying than the thought of another three months on the winter streets? He wasn’t sure. He’d rather not choose between them, if he didn’t have to.
“Alright.” The man’s voice remained amiable. “If you want to come back and work for us next year… well, we can always put the memories in storage for you. That’s what I have to do for most of my workers. But, well, the less storage I need for someone the better, hm?”
“Mhm.” Jim nodded. Made sense, after all. As much as magic could.
“Excellent. Let’s see how you get on…”

Prompt was “There’s a tavern that opens only in deep winter, serving a stew that satisfies completely. Payment is a memory of warmth: a summer afternoon, a first kiss, your mother’s voice. You’re so hungry. The door is right there.”