The auction

THE AUCTION

Year 2045. I am at Arant—the center for selling human values.

The building is crafted from metal, resembling an aquarium. The air here is artificial, much like the fake smiles on the buyers' faces. I stand ready to dismantle and sell my identity piece by piece inside a glass chamber labeled "Capsule 402." A helmet-like device sits on my head, rummaging through my memories like a hungry dog, sniffing and clawing to tear them out. You might ask, "Why are you here?" My answer is simple: for my mother’s life. Her lungs are weary of the city’s smog and the broken, high-pollution air.

They can only breathe through canisters labeled "Health-001." These packs are exorbitantly expensive—10,000 credits each. In this era, the human factor has vanished from not only high-paying jobs but even the simplest tasks. Thus, my poverty could be my mother’s death sentence. Consequently, I came here—to trade my past for the future.

— Attention! Ladies and gentlemen! — the auctioneer’s voice rang out. — The most precious memory from Capsule 402: age seven, springtime. His mother’s first loaf of bread pulled from the clay oven and the absolute sense of childhood safety. Starting bid: 100,000 credits.

His voice was as sharp as a surgical blade. On the screens, the scene from my mind came to life: the year 2020, our old house. Mud-plastered walls, the orange glow of the setting sun on the horizon. My mother bent over the tandir oven, wiping the sweat from her forehead and face with her white sleeves. There, she pulled out a hot, crusty loaf of bread. Handing it to me, she said, "My child, I’m giving you the most delicious part," and broke off a crunchy piece. At that moment, I didn't believe evil or sorrow existed in the world. Her scent was a blend of milk and wheat...

— 150 thousand! 200 thousand! 400 thousand! — the buyers stirred. A woman at the edge of the hall, her face frozen with botox and plastic surgery, raised her digital paddle. She was wealthy, but her soul was starving; she wanted to download my mother’s love into herself. By buying this feeling, she hoped to sit in her expensive villa and taste the warmth of a mother that had never been hers.

— Sold! — The strike of the gavel exploded in my mind.

Instantly, the generator hummed to life. It felt as if ink were poured into my brain, and the scene began to fade. First, my mother’s face blurred, then the warmth of the oven died out, and finally, the feeling of love within the concept of "mother" was sucked away. That sacred memory, which only a second ago warmed my heart, turned into dry data: "Woman. Bread. Hot." No color and no feeling remained. The money hit my account. This meant a year of air for my mother.

Three hours passed. I sold dozens more memories: my first day of school, seeing the sea for the first time, my first love, time spent with friends. With every memory sold, words began to fall from my tongue. I could no longer use words like "wonder," "excitement," or "love," because their foundations in my brain had been auctioned off.

— The final memory, — the auctioneer said in a weary tone. — The owner’s answer to the question "Why?"; the reason for coming here and the sense of self-sacrifice.

This was my last treasure. The final fragment of my love for my mother. If I sold this, I would forget why I was paying, and for whom the money was intended. This was my last light.

Something inside me resisted. Too weakly. Too late.

A thought flickered: who would even need this memory?

— Sell it, — I uttered in a hollow voice. The paddles with numbers began to rise.

And... everything went black.

The next day, I woke up in a luxurious villa. My memory held only the events of yesterday. Just then, I noticed a folded piece of paper beside me. It contained information about myself and an address. I hurried toward the indicated location.

Fifteen minutes later, I stood in a lavish ward of a grand hospital in the city center. A woman lay there, and the machines hummed as they pumped air into her lungs. Seeing me, she smiled, her eyes filling with tears as she whispered: "My son..."

I just stared at her. Who was this woman? Why was she crying? Why was I here? I now possessed enough wealth to buy every luxury in the world, but I had no feelings left to justify rejoicing in that wealth. I was the richest man in the world, but no one lived inside me. The real "Me" had already been sold off in pieces at the auction.

As I left the ward, I whispered to myself:

— Mother? What was the meaning of that word?

Instead of an answer, only numbers and the cold zeros of my bank balance echoed in my mind.