The interior was a hollow shade of amber, dimly lit along the expanse of the ceiling. The ambiance of the light flooded the room with a warm shade of orange as Riley slowly moved throughout the rows of shelving, eyes darting back and forth among the books. He kept his arms crossed as he walked, making a sharp right and heading towards an open area in what looked like the center of the Archive. Coming to a stop, he looked down at an open book that rested on a pedestal, noticing it being written into by some unknown force. Moving onward, he strode over to a random shelf and slipped a book out from the collection, cracking it open. He could feel the leather-bound chronicle breathe as he flipped through the pages, noting that it hadn't been ever opened. He also took notice of empty spaces within the writing, as if the book were missing entire sentences; paragraphs, even.
"What is going on?" he asked, turning around to see the Scribe stand next to the pedestal. "There are things missing in here. Why?"
"You were hit by a vehicle," replied the Scribe, watching as the book on the pedestal closed and re-opened, starting to graph new thoughts onto paper. "It seems you've suffered memory loss."
Riley, slipping the book back onto the shelf and grabbing a photo album, grew pensive as he flipped the volume of pictures. These pictures were memories of things that couldn't be expressed in writing, but something was wrong. Where significant moments in each image would be, they were blurred; warped in some way. He became frustrated with not being able to remember and tossed the album aside, letting it hit the ground. Before he knew it, it was back on the shelf, closed and waiting for viewing. He took a seat at a table nearby.
"Why can't I remember?" he asked.
"People find they remember things by searching other memories," the Scribe said, finding himself next to the human. "It acts as a catalyst for memory regeneration; at least, this is what I've found. Maybe, you could start from there."
"Will it progress?"
"My memory loss," Riley inquired. "I need to know if it'll progress."
"I'm not sure." The Scribe pondered that very predicament. "I'm only the shepherd of memory. I don't write them. I don't alter them. Beyond giving you the opportunity to see all of what and who you are, I hold no power here."
The human brought himself to his feet and began, once more, to walk around. Finding another book, he threw it on the table and continued to do so until he had a stack, twelve books high. Taking a seat again, he grabbed the top book and opened it up, beginning to read.
"'I've taken a liking to my sister's parents. They don't seem like bad people..."