Tomlen had witnessed four thousand, three hundred and twelve awakenings.
He kept count. Not in any official capacity. The Archives tracked numbers, sure, but they tracked them as statistics. Units processed. Quotas met. Efficiency ratings.
Tomlen tracked them as people.
—-
His station in the Dawn Day Processing Center was small, windowless, and exactly the way he liked it. A cot. Two chairs. Monitoring equipment humming softly in the corner. Nothing personal on the walls because personal things made people nervous.
They were already nervous enough.
The woman on the cot was stirring. Mid-forties. Wedding ring she’d been twisting all through yesterday’s intake. She’d registered for advancement three years ago, spent every day since then wondering what she’d lose.
Now she was about to find out.
Her eyes opened. Blinked. Focused on Tomlen’s face.
“How do you feel?” he asked. The same question he’d asked four thousand, three hundred and eleven times before.
“I… strange. Lighter.” She sat up slowly. “Did it work?”
“Your reset point has moved. You’re forty-seven now instead of forty-three.”
“And the memory?”
“That’s what we need to discover.” He handed her the journal she’d brought. “Start reading. Tell me what feels unfamiliar.”
She opened it with shaking hands. Began scanning entries from years past.
“This is my handwriting,” she said. “I recognize it. But this entry about… about a trip to the coast. I wrote this?”
“What does it say?”
“It says I went with my sister. That we watched the sunrise and talked about our mother.” She frowned. “I have a sister?”
Tomlen made a note. Category Two. Significant loss. The sister chain had collapsed.
“According to your intake records, yes. Senna. Two years younger than you.”
The woman stared at the journal. At words in her own handwriting about a person she couldn’t remember.
“I don’t feel anything,” she whispered. “I’m reading about my sister and I feel nothing at all.”
“That’s how it works.”
—-
He’d started this job nineteen cycles ago.
Fresh out of training. Eager. Believed the recruitment speeches about helping people through transitions, supporting human consciousness, doing important work.
And it was important work. He still believed that. The alternative to advancement was deterioration, and deterioration was worse. He’d watched his own mother fragment, lose herself, die confused and afraid.
Better to lose pieces than lose everything.
That’s what he told himself. Four thousand, three hundred and twelve times.
—-
Dawn Day processing lasted a week.
People who’d registered during the cycle arrived at centers like this one on Dawn Day Eve. They slept in monitored cots. When the reset hit and their bodies snapped to their new ages, scribes like Tomlen were there to help them wake up. To guide them through the discovery of what they’d lost.
Some discoveries were easy. A forgettable Tuesday. A stranger’s face. Moments that wouldn’t be missed.
But some discoveries broke people.
—-
The young man in Cot Seventeen was twenty-three. First advancement. He’d registered two years ago when he could finally afford it, spent every day since then wondering if he’d lose something important.
He’d lost something important.
“I don’t understand,” he kept saying. “You’re telling me I have a mother. But that doesn’t feel right. I don’t think I have a mother.”
They brought her in. She’d been waiting in the family area since before dawn, terrified about which version of her son would wake up.
“Brennan? It’s me. It’s Mom.”
The kid looked at her with polite confusion. The way you’d look at a stranger claiming to know you.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I think there’s been a mistake.”
Tomlen watched it happen. Category Three. Catastrophic loss. The seed had been meeting her, somehow. His earliest memory of her face. Everything connected to that had collapsed.
Sixteen years of maternal relationship. Gone.
One in ten. That’s what Tomlen’s records showed. One in ten people woke up on Dawn Day missing something fundamental.
The official statistics said it was lower. Said catastrophic losses were rare, maybe one in fifty, maybe less.
The official statistics lied.
—-
He went home that night to his empty apartment.
Same apartment he’d had for nineteen cycles. Permanent structure in a decent district. One of the few luxuries his salary afforded.
He poured himself a drink. Didn’t turn on the lights.
Brennan would be fine, eventually. His mother would spend years telling him stories, showing him photos, trying to rebuild something from the wreckage. Some of it might stick. New memories layered over the gap where old ones used to be.
But it wouldn’t be the same.
It was never the same.
—-
Tomlen had advanced twice in his life.
Once at twenty-nine, when he could finally afford it. Spent the next four years dreading what Dawn Day would take. Lost a forgettable summer. No big deal.
Once at forty-one, when the deterioration started creeping in. Three years of wondering what he’d lose. Three years of looking at everything precious and thinking, “Maybe this.” Lost his father’s funeral. That one stung. His father had been a difficult man, absent more than present, but the funeral had been meaningful. A chance to grieve. To let go.
Now he couldn’t remember it. Knew it happened from his journals. Could read his own words describing the experience. But the feeling was gone.
He’d stopped advancing after that.
Let his registration lapse. Let the deterioration come. Better to know what he was losing than to spend years dreading the axe.
—-
The next morning brought another full schedule.
Fifteen awakenings to process. Fifteen people opening their eyes to discover what Dawn Day had taken.
Most would be fine. Sixty percent. Trivial losses.
Some would lose something that mattered. Thirty percent. Significant losses.
And one or two would walk out as strangers to themselves. Ten percent. Catastrophic.
He couldn’t predict it. Couldn’t control it. Could only be there when they woke up, help them understand what had happened, guide them through the discovery.
—-
His third awakening was an old woman.
Seventy-eight. Eleventh advancement. She’d been doing this long enough to know the routine.
“Just tell me what I lost,” she said before he could even ask how she felt.
“That’s not how it works. You have to discover it yourself.”
“I know how it works.” Sharp, tired. “I’ve done this eleven times. Lost my wedding, my children’s births, my first love, my sister’s face. What’s one more?”
She grabbed her journal. Began flipping through with practiced efficiency.
Ten minutes later, she looked up.
“My mother’s death. I can’t remember it.”
“How does that feel?”
“It doesn’t feel like anything. That’s the point, isn’t it?” She closed the journal. “My mother was difficult. We fought constantly. Didn’t speak for years at a time. When she died, I wasn’t sure if I was sad or relieved.”
“And now?”
“Now I feel nothing at all.” She looked at him with eyes that had seen too much. “Is that better or worse?”
“I don’t know.”
“Honest answer.” She stood, gathered her things. “I appreciate that. Most scribes pretend it’s all fine. That we’re doing the right thing. That the losses don’t matter because at least we’re still here.”
“The losses matter.”
“Yes.” She paused at the door. “They do. Even when we can’t remember what we’ve lost.”
—-
Tomlen’s afternoon intake session was harder than the morning awakenings.
Intake meant meeting people who’d just registered. Who’d made the decision but hadn’t faced the consequences yet. Who still had months or years of dread ahead of them before the next Dawn Day arrived.
The woman in his intake chair had three children.
“I’m terrified,” she admitted.
“That’s appropriate.”
“Everyone keeps telling me it’ll be fine. That the odds are good. That most people lose something small.”
“Most people do.”
“But not everyone.”
“No. Not everyone.”
She was quiet for a moment. “My kids are twelve, nine, and six. If I lose them…”
“You won’t necessarily lose them. The seed is random.”
“But I might.”
“You might.”
She closed her eyes. Breathed. Opened them again.
“My husband says I’m being selfish. That deteriorating is worse. That I need to do this for the family.”
“What do you think?”
“I think there’s no good choice.” She looked at him directly. “I think the system is designed so people like me lose no matter what we do. Advance and risk losing my children. Don’t advance and eventually forget them anyway.”
“Yes.”
“That’s monstrous.”
“Yes.”
“And you just… sit here. Processing it. Day after day.”
Tomlen didn’t flinch. He’d heard this before. Thought it himself, most nights.
“Someone has to.”
“Does someone have to? Really?” She leaned forward. “What if you refused? What if all the scribes refused? What if everyone just stopped participating in this system?”
“Then people would deteriorate without any option at all. At least this way, some people keep their minds.”
“The wealthy keep their minds. The rest of us just roll dice with ours.”
“I know.”
“And you keep doing it anyway.”
“I keep doing it anyway.”
—-
He processed her intake. Logged her registration. Gave her the standard materials about journaling, about documenting everything precious, about preparing for the wait.
She’d spend the next however-many-months before Dawn Day looking at her children and wondering if she’d remember them afterward. Every bedtime story might be the last one she’d recall. Every “I love you” might vanish into the gap.
That was the cruelty of the system. Not just the loss, but the anticipation. The dread. Knowing the axe was coming but not knowing what it would take.
—-
That night, he found his old training materials.
Buried in a closet, nineteen cycles of dust. The recruitment pamphlets. The technical manuals. The ethics guidelines.
“Dawn Day Processing Scribes serve a vital function in maintaining social stability. By helping citizens through advancement transitions, we support cognitive health and productive contribution to society.”
Contribute productively to society.
That was what it was about, in the end. Not helping people. Not preserving minds. Keeping workers functional. Keeping the economy running. Keeping everyone in their place.
The wealthy advanced every cycle, only carried memories for seven years at a time, rarely lost anything deeply rooted. The poor advanced rarely if ever, carried decades of interconnected memories, lost entire tapestries when a single thread was pulled.
And Tomlen sat in the middle, processing the outcomes, watching the results.
Four thousand, three hundred and twenty-eight awakenings now.
How many catastrophic losses had he personally witnessed?
He did the math. Ten percent of four thousand, three hundred and twenty-eight.
Four hundred and thirty-two people who’d woken up in his station missing something fundamental.
Four hundred and thirty-two mothers who became strangers. Fathers whose faces disappeared. Childhoods that collapsed. Loves that evaporated.
He’d watched it happen.
Not caused it. Not really. The system did that. But he’d been there. Present for the discovery. The professional face that guided them through understanding what had been taken.
Four hundred and thirty-two catastrophes with his fingerprints on them.
—-
He didn’t quit.
He thought about it. Fantasized about walking away, finding some other work, letting someone else process the outcomes.
But someone else would just do it anyway. The system didn’t need him specifically. It needed bodies in chairs, calm voices saying “how do you feel,” patient hands guiding people through the worst discoveries of their lives.
At least he was honest with them.
At least he didn’t pretend the odds were better than they were.
—-
The next Dawn Day, he processed another young man.
This one was luckier. Mid-twenties. First advancement. Had spent two years dreading this moment.
He woke up. Tomlen handed him his journal. He read.
“I can’t remember… some summer when I was eight? Something about a camp?”
“What specifically?”
“I don’t know. The entry says I went to camp and learned to swim, but I don’t remember the camp. I remember knowing how to swim. I remember swimming in other places. But the camp itself is gone.”
Trivial loss. Category One. The kid would walk out confused but intact. Would spend a few weeks discovering small gaps, moments he should remember but didn’t. Nothing that would reshape his life.
“You got lucky,” Tomlen said.
“Yeah.” The kid looked relieved. Shaky with relief. “I was so scared. I kept thinking about my mom, my girlfriend, everything important. I thought for sure…”
“Most people lose something small.”
“But not everyone.”
“No. Not everyone.”
The kid left. His mother was waiting in the family area, crying with relief when she saw his face and realized he still knew her.
Tomlen watched them go.
Then he called in the next one.
—-
The woman with three children came back the following Dawn Day.
Eighteen months of waiting. Eighteen months of looking at her kids and wondering.
She woke up. Tomlen handed her the journal.
She read for a long time. Turning pages. Checking entries. Her face cycling through confusion, concentration, and finally, careful relief.
“My wedding,” she said finally. “I can’t remember my wedding.”
Not her husband. Not her children. Just the ceremony itself. The vows. The celebration. The moment of promising forever.
“I know I’m married,” she said, looking at her ring. “I remember being married. I just… can’t remember getting married. Is that common?”
“Weddings are significant emotional events. They anchor a lot of connected memories. When the seed pulls something nearby, the wedding often goes with it.”
She nodded slowly. Processing.
“At least I still have my kids.”
“At least you still have your kids.”
She left to find them in the family area. Tomlen heard the sounds of reunion through the door. Children’s voices. Her husband asking if she was okay.
She was okay.
This time.
—-
Tomlen went home that night and wrote in his own journal.
Four thousand, three hundred and forty-one awakenings.
Ten percent catastrophic.
One in ten.
He’d keep counting. Keep tracking. Keep sitting in his station and processing the outcomes and guiding people through the discovery of what they’d lost.
Because someone had to.
Because the alternative was worse.
Because believing that was the only way he could sleep at night.
—-
He didn’t advance again.
Let the deterioration come. Let the memories blur and fragment and overlap.
At least he’d know what he was losing.
At least he’d feel the weight of it.
That was more than he could say for the four hundred and thirty-four catastrophes who’d walked out of his station missing something fundamental.
They didn’t even know what to grieve.
He did.
And somehow, that felt like the least he owed them.
