They are born to be forgotten. This is their fate; to live in people's fleeting memories without a trace of permanence. They sit on the thin edge of what exists and what should have never come into being. One minute you could be having an animated conversation with these pitiful creatures, and the next they could become a complete stranger. Imagine how depressing it must be to enter this world writhing and thriving with life, only to be abandoned by it days later.

Of course, for some, the erasure happens much more gradually. It doesn't have to be all at once. Minuscule details may escape your mind day by day, followed by a scheduled date going amiss, then maybe a name, maybe a face, and eventually, poof! They're completely eradicated from your life. This could happen over the course of months or years. You can fight it all you want, you can struggle to preserve their memory all you'd like, but you'll still forget about them nevertheless. It's only a matter of time.

So what do we call these people, you ask? These restless souls longing for a home? The first term was coined by some guy everyone's already forgotten, documented in books by authors who have disappeared as well. But lucky for these forgotten people, a genius out there was able to gather all these lost people, hone their abilities, and create a booming, profitable profession that only they were qualified to work in. It appears this was the only way these lonesome people could ever leave a trace of their existence on this earth. We call them Erasure men. Of course, now we know they aren't only men, women and children can be afflicted as well, but alas, this is the name that stuck, so I have no choice but to use it.

Now I'm not here to mock these Erasure men, to pity them on their struggle of merely existing, but rather, I'm here to tell their story before I forget, before we all forget, again. Here I become another lost author, and here lie all your forgotten memories.

Our eyes fall upon a young man standing in the midst of a bustling subway station. The dim lights flickering above make him appear more worn out than he really is, giving his skin a pasty texture and adding depth to his dark shadows. A red backpack is slung over a checkered shirt, and the lad is working with deft fingers to fasten the last of his buttons. He doesn't appear tired, but rather, there is a certain weariness about his character. Every once in a while, he scuffs the sole of his sneakers against the tiles, glances at the monitor overhead, then heaves a sigh.

For some reason, there is a paper cut which runs along the pad of his thumb, maybe it's from a card, maybe a sheet of paper, but with the winding, rumbling, rattling noise drawing near, he is given no time to ponder the injury. In fact, it appears the feeling of pain hasn't even registered itself in his mind.

The man approaches the yellow tactile paving with languid steps, and when the doors part for him, with careful footing he steps off the platform and boards the train.

We, as one entity without a physical body, yet still a part of this world, are unable to board along with him. Instead, as the doors slide to a close and the train starts whizzing forward again with its high-frequency hums, we are into the cracks. Riding along the winds, drifting through the dim tunnels and dancing with the nocturnal lights, through a vent we go, until we are above ground in a different time, a different place. We brush over hoods of cars, tease threads of hair, we continually go upwards until we are flying high through the night sky. Leaping boundlessly from cloud to cloud, we observe the world below us.

It is a sea of darkness, sprinkled with millions of sparkling, glittering lights. Now, you would think that each of these little sparks are simply lampposts or excess light flooding from windows of apartment buildings, but this is not entirely true. I like to think of these lights as the people who are capable of forgetting, the ones able to drop their luggage wherever they please and carry on with life without a care in the world. However, the same thing cannot be said for the Erasure men.

Another ill fate of these Erasure men is that they are born to never forget. Every face that's ever forgotten them, every word that may have gone over someone's head, every good deed unpunished, they remember it all. From the moment they leave the womb to the day they die, every second of their life has been branded into memory.

So where are these Erasure men? Among the sea of stars and burning matches? The answer is simple.They're all in hiding, underground, underneath floorboards and within elusive alleyways. Their lights aren't as bright, but rather a dim, glowing, warm, fuzzy thing. They still burn, however. Every single one of them is still alight.

One foot slips through a cloud, tearing through it like a thin sheet of paper. Should we start screaming? Maybe. But this isn't one of those exhilarating drops where your cheeks start flailing all crazily and your face goes numb with the wind battering your body. It is a gentle fall, defying gravity and the laws of physics. Tumbling, twirling; these words are a more accurate description. It's one of those fanciful moments, like rolling down the side of a hill overgrowing with daisies and whatnot. Pretty.

Down, down, down we go. For some odd reason, we are being drawn to a narrow concrete stairway, illumined by neon lights that reflect off the beer bottles stretching along the edge of its mouth. What is left of the banister are chips of green paint and corroding iron. This place exudes an extremely shabby, rundown feel to it, but it's what's on the inside that really counts.

Sneaking along the edges of the steps and running fingers over the lacquered lettering on the window of the door, it reads:

ERASURE CO.
Tell us all your darkest secrets
And we will be the ones to set you free.

We slip underneath, emerging on the other side where we are greeted by a claustrophobic hallway lined with tightly shut doors. A crusty rug of deep burgundy is draped over the unvarnished wooden floor, running beside dull green walls covered in miscellaneous newspaper clippings. At the entrance hangs a directory of the different suites and their owners. There are a total of ten.

As mentioned previously, there is a certain profession that only Erasure men are qualified to work in. This happens to be one of the dens.

Peering into one of the offices, we find a woman lounging on a leather chair behind a bureau. One hand breezes over paperwork with a fountain pen whilst the other fiddles a card. She idly digs a corner into the nail bed of her index finger. This would be a typical work setting, if not for the middle-aged man seated across from her in a very disconcerting position. With his hooded eyes, lolled head, and calloused hands hanging limply at his sides, he would appear very much dead if not for his slow and laborious breaths. Despite the disturbing image this may seem to conjure, the woman remains unperturbed.

Only when the man begins to stir do her eyes become fixated on his figure. With concise actions that can only belong to a professional, she sits up, sets the clutter aside, clears , and brushes strands of hair back.

How many times has an image like this been burned into her memory? Where the client awakens with a confused, glazed look in their eyes? One too many. The client at present blinks blearily at the woman before shifting uncomfortably in his chair, finding himself misplaced in a time and location most unfamiliar. After all, a good portion of his life has just been erased.

He had lost his wife in a tragic car accident some time ago, and decided it was best that he erase the twenty or so years he had spent with her. Anniversaries were forgotten, dates were obliterated, jokes and songs were nonexistent, and figurative wedding photos were burned. Inside the desk of the woman sat a simple gold band she would later sell at the local pawn shop once her shift was over. It was given to her by the client before the treatment, along with the grant that she was permitted to do whatever she wanted with it.

"Welcome back," the woman greets. "How are you feeling? Nauseous? Lightheaded?"

She slides the white, minimalistic business card across the grains of wood. It is bordered by neat lines of black ink, and inscribed on the front in equally dark letters is the title of the company and her name. There is no contact information.

ERASURE CO.
Park Yejin

The man delicately holds it between burly fingers; his brows wrinkle from deep thought. It was typical of clients to ask a few questions after a session, and this man is no different.

"I'm confused," he answers blankly. "What exactly am I doing here?"

"You requested to have your memories erased. Are you feeling any symptoms of past awareness?"

"I'm not sure. I remember coming here, but I don't remember the reason why. Everything in here," he taps his temple, "feels perfectly fine. Do you think you could tell me what's been erased?"

"I've only erased what's been requested. Before the treatment—which you will recall in just a moment once the side effects wear off—you had signed a waiver stating that you willingly give up all rights to your memories during the treatment, and you acknowledge the fact that Erasure men are prohibited from any form of restoration, both mentally and physically. This also includes verbally disclosing information on what's been erased once the procedure is over."
 
"I see." As predicted, his eyes no longer hold a glazed, bloodshot look, but rather a twinkling essence of innocence. His conscience is now clear, and his mind is at peace. He has now officially been reborn.
 
Again, Yejin slides another sheet across the desk, this time, a customer copy of the waiver.

Peering down at the paper, he ponders, "Was it for the better?"

"Yes." This may or may not be true, but we will never know. "The exit is to your right, down the hall. I hope you enjoy your clean slate and everything it has to offer."

Once he leaves this place, he will never be able to remember who exactly erased his memories, but he will remember that he's been here before if he ever does decide to repay a visit.

You see, this is the only thing Erasure men have to offer the world, hence their name. We only run to them in times of pain and utter suffering, but besides that, they hardly have an impact in our lives. Little is known about Erasure men, furthermore, they are only mentioned in passing. No one knows how they came to be. We just accept their existence as a fact and move on with life. It's not that difficult to move on either, since the moment we come across an Erasure man, it's very likely we'll forget ever meeting them a few minutes later.

The innate ability to erase memories is probably the most complex, most painful aspect about them. These individuals are the select few capable of sifting through people's memories, their hopes and dreams, their deepest and darkest secrets, before pulling out and completely destroying whatever they deem necessary. For some, it eventually becomes too traumatic for them to continue in this line of business, for others, the task is easy.

Park Yejin is somewhere caught in the middle. Going on her fifth year in this field, she is no longer affected by the memories. She's grown numb, immune, unfeeling, towards her clients. However, this doesn't make her any less human, nor does it mean that the journey here was a walk in the park either. In fact, she turned down the first offer of this position, stating that she had a bright future ahead of her. But eventually, as it happens with all Erasure men, she lost everything. So what could she do? She was given no choice but to take on the job.

The first sessions were extremely problematic. They always ended in a fitful of tears, forcing her coworker—the one who first introduced her to the profession—to swoop in and not only finish the job but to also erase the image of Yejin's tearful bout from the clients' minds.

Things got better eventually, and here we can now find Yejin at the end of her shift, rolling her shoulders back and feeling around pockets for keys. The only thing on her mind at the moment is a nice dip in a bubble bath, a cold can of beer, and a hearty, candlelit meal with no one in particular.

A knock echoes throughout the room before the door slowly creaks open. A man, Yejin's coworker, emerges from the unknown—a dark, sl