Mildew and Memories
a short story
noir fantasy · a twenty-minute read
Elir was going to die. He was always going to die, of course, just as everyone else would. The difference was that Elir was going to die soon. Leaning over the cold corpse of a woman, blood staining her white nightgown, with her mother and husband standing next to him, Elir related more to the corpse than he did the two living, breathing people at his sides.
The study suited his mood. Dark wooden walls, and a cluttered desk in the center of the room. The floor was covered in deep crimson rugs, and everything was lit by a singular candle, doing its best to fend off the ever-encroaching darkness that lingered in the corners.
“Well?” the woman’s mother said. She wore a veil over her face, matching her black hat and dress. Her wrinkled hands were clutched tightly to her chest, like she was protecting herself from something in the motionless room.
Elir bit back a sigh, glancing at the woman’s husband, whose eyes were hard, locked onto the woman he loved. Then Elir laid a hand on the corpse’s shoulder, careful to avoid getting blood on himself.
The woman had stab wounds in her chest in the shape of a cross. It ran beneath her collarbones horizontally, and down the middle of her torso until it stopped just below her rib cage.
Her insides were completely visible. Even so, her eyes opened at Elir’s touch, and she sat up. She did so awkwardly, like she wasn’t used to the body. Elir didn’t react to the gasp from the mother, nor the grunt of surprise from the man.
He did, however, put his left hand on the ground and try not to collapse as he lost his vision. The moment that the woman’s body awakened, Elir’s own life dwindled. His fingers went cold, his muscles stiff. As his cloudy sight cleared, he looked down at his ring. Years before, the gemstone had gleamed like fire. Now it was dull. Barely any light at all.
Yes. Soon Elir would die. He swallowed the lump in his throat as best he could.
Mouth dry, Elir looked at the dead woman. Her mother had started to cry, and though she was trying to keep quiet about it, the somber noise still filled the room.
Ten heartbeats.
“What happened?” Elir asked.
Nine.
Eight.
No response. The woman, almost ghost-like, with her unnaturally pale skin and distant eyes, only swayed back and forth in a breeze that nobody else felt.
“Who killed you?” Elir tried again.
Seven.
Corpses weren’t always as cooperative as Elir wished they would be. The woman just continued swaying.
Six.
Five.
Four.
“Does my mother still sing when she cooks?”
For the first time, the woman spoke. And the words were useless. Her voice was choked, like she’d just finished screaming and crying. Despite that, her tone was melodic—a song nobody else could hear.
Three.
“Yes,” Elir lied, trying for soft. He kept his hand on the woman’s shoulder, lest she slip back into the depths of the afterlife.
The corpse gave a small, content smile. The old woman’s sobs grew louder.
Two.
“Who killed you?” Elir asked one more time, but she wouldn’t answer. Some people just didn’t care if their mysteries were solved.
“I’m sick, you know.”
One.
The dead woman sagged, trying to fall over with Elir’s hand still on her shoulder. He laid her down gently. The color of the rug hid most of the blood that had leaked from her stab wounds.
“Well?” the mother asked again, wiping tears. The husband was now looking at Elir, the hardness gone from his eyes.
They’d seen the same things he had. Heard the same, too. Why did they always think he knew something they didn’t?
The woman had chosen not to help him. There was nothing more he could do. They’d have to wait for the police to finish their own futile investigation.
“She didn’t say anything about her murder,” Elir replied, standing up and dusting off his trousers. He tried not to wobble from the sudden lightheadedness. “There’s nothing I can do.”
The city was dormant. Stagnant. It wasn’t sleeping, it was just a memory of what it had once been.
The cobbled street was empty. Just Elir, stalking toward his home with his head down, staring at pools of rainwater. Lamps lined the street, their golden light not doing much to ward off the thick fog all around. The air smelled of rain and rust, and carried a nagging chill. The arched windows and balconies of the surrounding houses made him wonder if anyone was watching him sulk.
Smoke billowed from chimneys. In the hazy distance, factories churned despite the evening hour, soot spewing into the air in gouts each ten times the size of the chimneys around him. Far off, the bell tower chimed. It stopped after seven rings. Seven o’clock.
Each time Elir raised the dead, his own lifespan was shortened. He didn’t know by how much, and he didn’t care to. At least, that’s what he told himself. He wore the ring for a reason. He glanced down at it. Even in the darkness, Elir could barely tell it glowed.
If he never used his powers again, he had perhaps five years left. He had mostly come to terms with his own mortality, after so many years of slowly killing himself.
The rain had long since stopped, leaving only desolate clouds behind. Elir reached into his long overcoat, feeling around the inside pocket. Within were two items: a small journal, and a memory crystal.
He pulled out the crystal first. It was a washed-out purple, vaguely round and covered in sharp lines and points. People used them to record memories they never wanted to forget. Usually, a person could only use it on themselves, though anyone could see inside a used crystal. Elir had bought this one for a more disturbing purpose—to record the final memories of the dead.
Of one of the dead. He’d had the idea, bought the crystal, and then tried to use it once, when one of the resurrected refused to speak to him. Even beginning the process of copying the final moments of the deceased into the thing had significantly lowered his lifespan. He could do it, but he would have to use all his remaining life force.
Elir thought of the woman, split open like a slaughtered animal, her mother crying. Then he shook his head. Not yet. Maybe the police could help them.
The thought was too hollow to be comforting.
Elir replaced the crystal in his pocket and withdrew the journal. He opened it to the first bare page, marked by a short pencil with a dull tip.
He wrote as he walked, stomping through puddles, soaking the ends of his trousers.
Claire. Age thirty-four. Knife wounds to the chest. No apparent motive. Husband and mother left behind. Failed. May peace find you.
There was room for a few more entries on the page. The journal itself was nearly full—a reminder that despite all of the years Elir had lost, he still had more than some.
Perhaps it was finally time to stop. To lay down the mantle and live out the rest of his years—however short—finding happiness for himself. He’d been a detective for over a decade, and was the only one he knew of who could raise the dead. People hired him when they thought the police could do nothing to help.
Yes, maybe it was time to live. To let go. To enjoy himself.
Elir absently noted a wealthy man walking in the opposite direction. He avoided eye contact, instead looking at the man’s feet. The man carried a silver cane that he didn’t seem to need to walk—he just tapped it on the cobblestones as he passed. Was that the councilor?
Not important. Shaking his head free of the errant thought, the tapping fading into the distance behind him, Elir looked down at the page. He ran his fingers over the letters. Claire. He’d asked for the woman’s name and age before he left the family’s home. They hated him because he couldn’t help, but they told him anyway.
Sighing, Elir tucked the pencil in the crevice where the two pages met and closed the journal, putting it back into his coat. Nobody cared for the dead but him. Dozens of names, all lost. Nowhere but his journal.
Elir looked through the peephole; an empty porch. He was sure someone had just knocked. He shrugged and turned away. Then a muffled voice sounded through the wooden door.
“Hello?” A child.
Elir’s brows knitted together as he unlatched the lock. Daylight spilled into the entrance of his home, forcing Elir’s eyes into a squint.
Standing on his porch was a young boy, no older than twelve. His hair hung in greasy strands in front of his face, and grime coated his arms to the elbows. His clothing fared no better, looking like little more than the rags used to clean a clogged chimney. Despite all of that, his shoulders were set, his hands balled into fists.
“Are you the necromancer?” the boy asked, meeting Elir’s eyes. They were older than his years. Elir nodded.
“I need…” the boy paused, posture loosening. He looked down at his feet. They were bare, covered in small scrapes and cuts.
“Come in,” Elir said, swinging the door open wider and standing back. The kid’s mouth dropped open as he looked up again. He wasn’t accustomed to niceties, it seemed. “Come in.”
The boy was nearly unrecognizable after a warm bath and a meal. He still had untamed hair and wounded feet, but with his skin and his meager clothing washed, he just looked poor instead of homeless.
Elir sat across from the kid, whose name he learned was Toby, in his sitting room. The place never got much use, evidenced by the dust covering every surface and the pristine condition of the cushioned chairs they sat in. Typically, Elir’s clients called him to their homes. Though, he supposed, a homeless child couldn’t do that.
“I need you to help my sister,” Toby began. He was trying to be strong, but there was an edge of pleading to the boy’s tone.
“With what?” Elir asked. He poured tea from the kettle that sat on the table between them, twisting curls of steam rising into the air. Toby didn’t take his eyes off the plate of biscuits between the two teacups when he replied, even though he’d just eaten.
“My sister…” Toby pressed his lips together firmly, like he didn’t want to say the rest of the sentence. “My sister is… someone killed her.”
Elir’s expression was porcelain. Brittle. He handed Toby a teacup, full to the brim, and gestured for the boy to help himself to the biscuits.
How sad, for a boy so young.
“I don’t have money,” Toby continued. He hadn’t moved since being handed the tea.
In his mind, Elir laughed bitterly—at himself. To think he’d even considered settling down to die in peace. Without meaning to, he looked at the faded gem in his ring.
“Show me where she died.”
It was full dark, but Toby had insisted on getting Elir’s help as soon as possible. He’d been dragged from his home, through alleyways and corridors lit only by the moon. Toby seemed at home in these claustrophobic alleys, but Elir knew what went on within them. After all, he was often the one investigating the aftermath.
Lamps grew further and further apart as they walked. The buildings became wobbly things, held up by expectation. The pair slipped between two beaten-down houses. Shoddy exteriors, windows broken. The narrow alley smelled of mildew and memories, but beyond that suffocating miasma, there was the tang of blood.
Piles of dust, dirt, and trash covered the stone like a thick carpet. At the dead-end further along, there were two thin, raggedy sheets that Elir assumed were used as blankets.
On top of one of the sheets was a small form. He couldn’t make out anything more in the darkness, so he pulled a short, thin candle from his pocket and lit it with a match.
The girl, lying in a dark stain of dried blood, was even younger than Toby. Her chest was cut open, collarbone to collarbone. Down her body was another gash, starting at the middle of the first wound and stopping right at the bottom of the girl’s rib cage. The cuts were clean. Almost surgical. She was laid out as if she’d been put to bed.
This child had been killed in the exact same way as the woman from his last case, and this body was fresh. There was a pattern. A pattern that gave him hope. Hope that maybe he could still help Claire, along with this little girl.
Toby sniffed behind Elir. He turned to find the boy covering his face with his hands, trails of tears reflecting the dim candlelight.
Jaw set, Elir turned back to Toby’s sister. Her expression was pure fear. Unadulterated. Without nuance.
Elir prepared himself, and then placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder.
Her blank eyes flickered in and out of focus, and she sleepily rose, propping herself up on her hands and peering at Elir. Elir himself was struggling to maintain consciousness.
Ten.
“Hey there,” Elir said. Toby was still crying behind him.
“Hi,” the girl replied.
Nine.
Elir withheld a sigh of relief. She was at least talkative. That was the first step to a successful interrogation.
Eight.
“Do you know what happened?” Elir asked, offering her a comforting smile.
The girl looked down at her body. Her ragged dress was further cut up, her intestines hiding behind flaps of dead skin. The already fake smile died on Elir’s lips.
Seven.
“A big man hurt me.”
Elir nodded.
Six.
“Did you know who he was?”
Five.
The girl shook her head.
Four.
“What did he look like?”
The girl’s lips pursed. She was covered in blood and grime, long hair forever glued into thick knots and greasy tangles. Her insides bulged like dough expanding beyond the dish that held it.
Three.
“He looked like he was happy,” the girl said. “And…”
Two.
“He had a cane with him. It was silver.”
Elir froze. He remembered a silver cane, tapping against the cobblestones.
One.
The girl’s body tried to collapse in his grip, but she was small enough that his hand on her shoulder kept her upright. Slowly, carefully, he laid her back down, pushing the hair from her eyes.
Elir’s limbs felt like dead weight. Even the thought of moving nearly made him black out. His hands were almost completely numb. Cold. He waited for the feeling of his own impending death to subside.
There was only one suspect, based on the girl’s words. Councilor Thorne’s silver cane was famous. Either it was him, or someone trying to frame the councilor. Elir had crossed paths with the man the night before… had he been on his way back from killing this girl? Elir shivered.
Toby approached from behind, wiping snot and tears from his face. He looked at Elir, hopeful, as Elir finally regained control of himself.
Elir looked down at his ring, up at Toby, and then back to his ring, eyes wide. The light was nearly unnoticeable. Biting his lip, he ripped his gaze off his finger. Now was not the time. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat.
“What was her name?”
Elir sat in his unused sitting room alone, the cushioned chair making him feel guilty for being well-off. He couldn’t stop thinking of that dirty alley. The disgusting, tattered cloth they were using as bedding. And Lucy, dazedly holding herself up with her hands, split open all the way down the middle.
He’d taken Toby home with him. Elir had a spare room, and the boy needed somewhere to rest. To, if not be comfortable, at least be safe.
He hoped Toby was asleep right then, but Elir wouldn’t have been surprised if the kid was up, staring into the darkness the same way he was.
The dark was what he typically preferred, but tonight it was also fitting. Claire. Lucy. Toby. For god’s sake, his main suspect was one of the most important men in the city.
Councilor Thorne.
Elir shifted in the plush chair. The city was corrupt. Thorne was rich and carried a lot of political weight. Men like him didn’t get accused.
If Thorne was the murderer, he’d have killed two people in only a few days. Elir had no idea what the motive was, and there was a chance Thorne would strike again soon. If Elir could catch him in the act, the councilor would have to be punished.
Elir thought of Lucy, her body laid out respectfully, but with bloody organs exposed.
He did not sleep that night.
The sergeant behind the desk didn’t look up when Elir approached. People sat in velvet chairs near the door, huddled up close to one another like scared animals. At the next desk down, an old man in a top hat was yelling at the policeman about a property dispute.
“Yes?”
The candle on the sergeant’s desk crackled. It illuminated the paperwork in front of him. Elir could see the top of his hat and none of his face.
“I need to report a murder,” Elir said, leaning in close. He nearly whispered the words, to avoid causing panic in the station.
“Where?” the sergeant asked. His pen didn’t stop scratching on paper for even a moment.
Elir glared at the top of the sergeant’s hat. “In an alley, in the… less fortunate… part of the city.”
“What happened?” The sergeant slid the paper he’d been writing on to the side and picked up another.
“A little girl was murdered.” Elir’s voice was picking up volume. A few of the others in the station glanced at him, but looked away quickly when they met eyes.
“Do you know who did it?”
“Yes,” Elir said. “I resurrected her.”
For the first time, the sergeant looked up at him. The man was older, with a thick, gray mustache and a dull expression. “I asked if you know who did it.”
“Yes, but…” Elir trailed off. If he mentioned Thorne at the station, all sorts of issues could arise. He didn’t know if any other officers were corrupt, and even in the best case, word would get back to the councilor.
“Got proof?” the sergeant asked, head already lowered again.
“No, I—”
“Bring evidence,” the sergeant said. He pushed a paper across the desk without a glance. “Fill this out, so we know where the body is. We’ll get to it when we can.”
With a huff, Elir snatched the paper and went to sit down.
Nothing.
Just pigeons and petitioners.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Elir had followed Thorne to the council building and then waited. Every time the bell chimed the hour, Elir’s patience thinned more. When Thorne finished work, sometime after six o’clock, Elir tailed the man.
Thorne was coming out of a bakery, a bag with a long loaf of bread peeking out of the top in one hand, his silver cane in the other. He was a big man. Much taller and wider than Elir, with short, buzzed hair.
Thorne’s dark eyes lingered on people as he passed them on the street. Almost as if he was considering them, trying to decide on something. He passed a street kid—older than Toby, but not by much—and paused. Elir held his breath as the councilor turned to face the kid in the mouth of an alley.
Thorne leaned his cane against his hip. He reached up to the loaf of bread and broke off a big hunk, then offered it to the kid.
Then the councilor continued home.
Elir didn’t have time to wait. Thorne wasn’t acting suspicious at all. On the contrary, he was doing public acts of kindness on his walk home. But if it wasn’t Thorne, then who could it be? And with Elir’s ring losing the last of its glow…
Every door Elir turned to had been closed, and yet there the councilor was, about to step across the threshold of a warm, bright home.
Giving up all pretense, Elir ran up and grabbed Thorne by the shoulder. He shouldn’t have done it, and he was doing it anyway.
“Why?” Elir’s voice came out surprisingly controlled.
Thorne wore a shocked expression. “What? I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“You killed two people.”
Thorne opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. The man’s eyes looked beyond Elir, as if he was thinking about who else might be listening. The street behind them bustled with carriages and people walking with purpose. Thorne was too calm.
“You must be mistaken,” Thorne said, turning stiffly, making Elir release his grip.
“You’re going to answer for this.”
Elir’s lip curled as Thorne laughed, back still turned. He laughed.
“What are you talking about?” the councilor asked. “Me? A murderer? I’m sorry, son, but you have the wrong man.”
Then he shut the door in Elir’s face.
After a moment, Elir began the walk home, fists clenched, the sun not even set yet. Was Thorne right? There was almost nothing Elir could do against someone as important—as rich—as Thorne. And now that he’d grabbed the councilor on his own porch, he couldn’t go back to the station, either.
The fog had mostly cleared, but puddles of rainwater remained, and the sky’s gray lingered. Seven chimes from the bell tower told him it would soon be dark. Toby was still at Elir’s home—or he should be. Elir had all but commanded the boy to stay until he returned.
“Oh, Elir?” a matronly voice called as a carriage clopped past him. “Is that you? Slow down, coachman, slow down! Can you not see I’m trying to talk to someone?”
Elir stopped, but he didn’t want to. All he wanted was to sulk in private, to be quite honest.
“Oh, it is you!” The woman said. Elir looked up at the window of the coach. The woman’s face was caked in makeup, her graying hair bound in a big, superfluous bun. She seemed vaguely familiar. “Come! Please, come chat for a moment!”
Elir obliged, trying to maintain a polite demeanor.
He climbed into the carriage. The interior was just as opulent as the rest of the thing, complete with two benches facing each other and covered in dark purple cushions. The canopy was made of pristine white silk. Sitting across from the woman was a man, firmly gray, with a square head and a mustache that curled at the ends, overhanging a short beard.
“How have you been?” the woman asked, patting the bench next to her.
“Getting by,” Elir replied, providing a smile he didn’t feel.
“We are doing the same,” the man said, smiling himself. “Thanks to you.”
The woman nodded. “I think knowing the details of his death helped a lot in moving on. Wouldn’t you agree, dear?”
While the man nodded, Elir went cold. He didn’t remember them. Who were they talking about? He didn’t know. Elir ran a hand along his overcoat, feeling the top edge of the journal underneath the heavy fabric. He was the only one who cared for the dead—or so he’d thought.
“Our son,” the woman said. She must have seen his expression. “You helped solve the murder of our son.”
“Yes, yes,” Elir replied, feigning recognition. “Of course!”
But in truth, he’d forgotten. Even then, he couldn’t find the face of the couple’s son in his memory.
The couple continued speaking to him. Elir had failed once again. Failed himself. It was his duty to remember the lost.
Before long, the wealthy couple became bored of him, and they said their goodbyes. The carriage rolled down the street, bouncing over the cobblestones, the plodding of the horse’s hooves slowly fading.
Tears ran down his face as he continued the journey home. He didn’t even try to wipe them away.
Eight bells chimed. So little time left. He’d forgotten the couple’s son, true. But perhaps he could help Lucy and Claire. Even if he was wrong about Thorne, the crystal would show whoever it was. Elir didn’t have time to continue by the book.
He made his decision then.
The body was exactly where Elir had last seen it. At the end of the alley. Lucy lay still, slowly rotting, surrounded by trash and filth.
He was alone. He’d told Toby to wait until the sun rose before coming, and to bring a police officer with him. Elir wouldn’t allow the boy to see what was going to happen, and this was ground the killer had worked before. Elir didn’t want Toby to get hurt after he was gone.
Elir removed his coat, folding it neatly and setting it aside. He left his journal there, too, but he held the memory crystal in one shaking hand, a candle in the other, as he approached Lucy’s corpse.
Getting down on his hands and knees, placing the candle to the side, Elir asked himself: was he satisfied with his life?
On one hand, he’d wasted it away, exchanging years of his own existence for no real benefit to himself, never pursuing any hobbies, any passions. A life ruined.
And yet, dozens of murders were solved when the police thought they could do nothing, all by conversations with the dead. Families could find peace because of his sacrifice. A life well-spent.
Elir wanted to say he was proud of his decisions. But looking down at his ring, the gem set within it devoid of life, he felt only regret.
I wish I’d been allowed to live for myself.
Still, Elir reached out and took Lucy’s hand. It was stiff, and her arm didn’t want to move when he pulled it away from her body, palm up. The stench of rot was nearly unbearable. Getting closer to the girl, he could see that the rats hadn’t been shy. There were chunks missing from her lips, nose, and eyelids.
Elir fought back the urge to throw up. He took a deep breath and put the memory crystal in Lucy’s palm.
Remembering Thorne’s horrible laugh, Elir covered the top of the crystal with his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing nothing in his dry mouth, and activated it before he could second-guess himself.
Immediately the world dimmed, as if the moon had disappeared, and its soft light with it. With every passing second, Elir’s sight grew darker.
He’d forgotten something else. Always, always forgetting.
Every pounding heartbeat was a clock’s tick. Running out of time.
With movements that took an eternity, Elir turned and snatched his journal from the ground. He could barely make out where the ink-covered pages ended as he hastily flipped through to the first blank spot. Elir’s fingers shook so hard that he wasn’t sure if any of his writing would even be legible.
Elir finished writing just as he lost his grip on his pencil, too weak to hold it any longer. He sighed out his final breath, as if pushing his soul from his body, his heart slamming against his rib cage.
The candle’s light disappeared. The world turned black.
Lucy was waiting for Toby to come back. He’d gone looking for food, but she was always scared when he wasn’t around.
She was sitting with her back against the dead end, on top of her own blanket, covering herself with Toby’s. He might be mad at her for using his without asking, but he wasn’t there, and she was scared, so she used it anyway. Plus, he wasn’t using it right then, so why did it matter?
A sound echoed down the alley. Lucy hunched deeper into the blanket.
Another sound.
Footsteps.
It was dark, but Lucy saw the outline of a man approaching. He had something long and thin in one hand. A cane? It looked like it was made of silver. Something like that was worth a lot of money.
In his other hand the man had something smaller, but Lucy couldn’t really tell what it was.
“Where’s your brother?” the man asked. He was really tall, and his voice sounded mean.
She didn’t answer him. The man stepped closer, but she couldn’t see anything more.
“What are you doing, all alone?”
Again, Lucy didn’t respond.
Finally, the man got close enough to make out. He crouched down right in front of her. He was wearing really nice clothes, and looked clean. His hair was short, his eyes were dark. Lucy looked down and realized the small thing in his hand was a knife.
She squealed, trying to jump away, but the man grabbed her arm. His breath smelled like peppermints.
Lucy cried out as the man reached back, and then drove the knife right into her chest.
The world grew blurry. Then melted away. The last thing she saw was the glint of smiling teeth against the foggy night sky.
Silas looked at his partner, Walter, then down at the little boy, and then back at the crime scene.
There were two bodies. One was a mutilated little girl—looked like she’d been dead for a few days. Next to her was the fresh corpse of a man. Average build, forgettable. No apparent injuries.
The alley was disgusting. Covered in every kind of muck he could imagine.
Silas walked over and knelt next to the little girl. Something in her hand caught his eye, reflecting the sunlight.
A memory crystal.
“I got a big clue here,” Silas said, gently taking the crystal from the girl. He held it up to Walter. “Memory crystal. Doesn’t make sense for a street urchin to have one. Maybe something important on there.”
Walter let out a low whistle. The little boy behind them was glaring at the crystal like it’d done him wrong somehow.
Silas went back to looking over the crime scene. A little girl in dirty rags, and a man in a pristine white undershirt and recently polished shoes. Two bodies with no obvious connection sitting right next to each other. Made Silas’s skin crawl. He checked the little girl’s other hand to see if she was holding anything else. Empty.
“Look at this,” Silas’s partner said. He turned to find Walter bending over, grabbing a notebook from beside the dead man. Black cover, worn with use. Walter leafed through it.
“What is it?” Silas asked, stepping around so he could read what was inside.
Names. Dozens of names. And ages. And causes of death.
“Who is this guy?” Walter asked under his breath. Silas shrugged, even though Walter wasn’t looking at him.
“A necromancer,” the boy said. He looked close to tears. Poor kid.
Silas had heard of some hack who could apparently ‘raise the dead.’ He couldn’t fathom people falling for it, though.
Walter turned another page in the notebook. Blank. He flipped back to the previous page.
The last entry was written in frantic scribbles, clashing with the neat handwriting everywhere else. It read:
Elir. Age twenty-nine. Remember them for me.