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But the jar held only so much, and by full moon its supply dwindled like a tide. Panic is a familiar smell; it mingled with bedlam as if they’d always been friends. People began to hoard memories as if memories were calories. A butcher locked his remaining spoon in a drawer and slept with the key under his pillow. Two sisters fought over the last smear the way empires quarrel over rivers. In the vigil that followed, the town learned an old lesson anew: when a miracle is finite, human cleverness grows as sharp as knives.

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The city outside melts away, replaced by a quiet riverbank under a moon that hangs low and heavy. A distant voice—your own, perhaps—calls out, “Remember the night you stood on the balcony, looking down at the streets you thought you’d never leave?” The memory unfurls, vivid and raw, bringing with it the smell of rain on hot asphalt and the taste of freedom that tasted like copper. A butcher locked his remaining spoon in a