She was gone before Morgan could respond.
Morgan found a small table in the corner, away from the clusters of chatting librarians who’d apparently all known one another for years. She wrapped both hands around her tea—fingers perfectly symmetrical on either side of the cup, palms pressed to the ceramic warmth—and let herself be still.
This was the part of her job she’d never learned to navigate. The conferences, the professional gatherings, the places where networking was expected and small talk was currency. She could recall every face and name and conversation, but she couldn’t seem to figure out the invisible rules that made people comfortable instead of unnerved.
Ms. Delacroix had tried to teach her.“Your memory is a gift, child. But not every gift needs to be unwrapped in public.”Morgan had gotten better at hiding it over the years—at pretending she didn’t remember, at letting people repeat themselves without comment. But sometimes it slipped out anyway, and she saw that same flicker of unease she’d been seeing since she was eight years old.
She finished her tea without tasting it and headed for the conference room.
The room was fuller than expected.
Morgan paused in the doorway, her notes—herunnecessary, normal-person notes—clutched against her chest. Forty chairs had been set up. At least sixty people were squeezed inside, some standing along the walls, others sitting on the floor near the front.
For one brief moment, Morgan felt a flush of pride. She hadn’t expected this much interest in digital archival systems. Maybe the profession was finally recognizing how critical?—
Then she noticed the phones. Already raised, already recording. The way people were watchingherinstead of glancing at the presentation title. The particular quality of their attention—curious, hungry, like she was an exhibit rather than a speaker.
Word had spread about thememorylibrarian.
She walked to the podium on legs that felt like someone else’s. The faces blurred together—curious, skeptical, hungry for something she didn’t want to give them. She tried to ignore the several phones already raised, cameras pointed at her like weapons.
“Good morning.” Her voice came out steady. Ms. Delacroix had taught her that too—how to project calm even when her insides were screaming. “I’m Morgan Reece, and I’m here to discuss digital archival systems and their integration with traditional cataloging methodologies.”
She made it through the first fifteen minutes. The slides advanced behind her, though she didn’t need them. She could see each one in her mind, down to the slightly misaligned text box on slide seven that she’d never gotten around to fixing.
A man in the third row raised his hand. Gray beard, skeptical eyes, arms crossed over a T-shirt that read “I’d Rather Be Reading.”
“Miss Reece. About your memory—I’m curious how it actually works in practice. Can you demonstrate?”
The room shifted. Even the phone-wielders stopped fidgeting.
She should have said no. She should have redirected to the presentation, cited the schedule, done anything except what she did next.
But sixty pairs of eyes were watching, and that old, exhausting need to prove herself—to show she was useful, to demonstrate value—rose up before she could stop it.
“Everyone who came in before I started speaking,” she said quietly. “Please raise your hand if you’re wearing a conference badge.”
About forty hands went up.
Morgan took a breath and began.
“Front row, left to right: 4472, 4156, 4891, 4233, 4517. Second row: 4689, 4102, 4445, 4778, 4321, 4656. Third row—” she met the skeptical man’s eyes “—including you, sir: 4234. The woman next to you is 4890. The young man on your left didn’t pick up his badge until this morning; his number is 4923, and he spilled coffee on his registration form, which is why the corner is wrinkled.”
She kept going. Number after number, face after face, her mind pulling the data from memory like files from a cabinet. The room had gone completely silent.
When she finished, applause erupted.
Morgan stood frozen at the podium, her hands gripping the sides so hard her knuckles had gone white. The applause wasn’t congratulatory—it was the sound of a crowd at a circus, delighted by the trick.
She finished the presentation on autopilot. Questions were asked; she answered them. More phones were raised. Someone requested a photo. She smiled the way she’d learned to smile—lips curved, eyes empty—and escaped as soon as the moderator called time.
A young librarian caught up with her in the lunch line.
“Miss Reece? I’m Hannah. I’m new at the Cut Bank branch, and I just… I had to tell you, that was incredible.”
She was young. Early twenties, maybe, about seven or eight years younger than Morgan. Enthusiastic in the way Morgan had been once, before she’d learned what enthusiasm cost.
“Thank you,” Morgan said.
