The river was made of liquid twilight, flowing silently beneath a perpetual purple sky. Elara was the ferryman, poling her small, flat-bottomed boat from the near shore, where the newly deceased gathered, to the far shore, where eternity waited.
Most passengers paid the price without question: a cherished memory. A coin for the boatman was an old, defunct myth. The true toll was personal.
Tonight's passenger was a young man in modern clothing, shivering despite the lack of cold. He looked confused, clutching a small, plastic keychain shaped like a dinosaur.
"The price," Elara said, holding out a weathered hand.
"The price? I don't have any money," he stammered, his eyes wide as he looked at the dark water.
"A memory. Your favorite one," Elara said patiently, keeping the boat steady with her pole.
The young man thought for a moment, tears welling up. "My daughter's first steps. I want to keep that one."
Elara shook her head gently. "You must surrender it to pass. The weight of memory prevents you from floating across the void."
He grew frantic, arguing, pleading, but the boat remained motionless until he finally nodded in defeat. He closed his eyes tight, concentrating. A shimmering, iridescent orb floated from his temple into Elara’s hand. She placed it into a simple wooden box in the center of the boat. The box clicked shut, and the boat glided forward.
Elara dropped him off on the shimmering bank of the far shore. As she poled back to the near shore to pick up her next passenger, she reflected on her job. She wasn't just a ferryman; she was a curator of beautiful final moments, keeping the essence of human love safe in her little wooden box, which was, in its own way, a kind of heaven.
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