From the Voice’s direction, I hear the scrape and fizz of a match being ignited.
I see the resulting flash of light illuminate the face of the man in front of me, as he lights the cigar poking out of his mouth.

His face is granite-edged, his eyes obscured by cigar smoke and his aviator sunglasses. While I can’t see his eyes, I have the unnerving feeling that they’re boring deep into my skull.

“Memory is a fickle part of the human condition. So maleable. So suggestive. So fragile. And yet it is the only way in which we, as humans, can experience the world we live in. We remember how to spell, how to read, how to walk, how to talk. We remember the experiences that have given creedence to our present lives.

And yet, if you blur, distort or warp the memory, everything changes. The whole world – your world – would never be the same again.”

He puffs on his cigar, letting his words sink in.

“Your world changed, didn’t it? But then again…murder changes everything for anyone…”

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