You were beautiful then. So was I — I watched you drinking in the sight of me. We're both old and withered and unforgivable now, I suppose.

But there was this one moment—we were lying together, side by side on our backs, your head pillowed on my outstretched arm... and then you said—

I forget.

This haunts me, naggles me. I seem to recall hearing a story once, of a ghost who forgot the last line of his favorite poem, could only be put to rest when a traveling scholar recited it.

I told you what I knew. You owe me.

(From "Thirty-Five Owls", by Letterblade.)