The flickering gaslight cast long, dancing shadows across the cramped room, illuminating the dust motes swirling in the air like tiny, forgotten memories themselves. A wave of nausea rolled over Elara, the intensity of the recovered fragments leaving her weak and breathless. It wasn't the physical exertion of scavenging that drained her; it was the sheer weight of the past, a burden she hadn't known existed until it crashed down upon her.

The memories weren't neatly packaged, chronologically ordered narratives. They were shards of glass, sharp and jagged, reflecting distorted images of a life she couldn't quite grasp. One moment, she was a child, laughing in a sun-drenched garden, the scent of honeysuckle thick in the air. The next, she was a young woman, her face etched with fear, fleeing through shadowed alleyways, the metallic tang of blood filling her nostrils. The transitions were jarring, abrupt, leaving her reeling in a sea of confusion.