The office was strange, as all offices tend to be, but this one was peculiar in ways that could only be described as surreal. It had no windows, no clocks, and the smell of stale coffee seemed to hang in the air like an abstract painting.
Albert sat at his desk, staring at a pile of documents labeled “Forgotten Conversations.” He had been given the task of sorting these conversations, though no one had told him why. The reports seemed simple enough: one document would contain the contents of a conversation he remembered having with his friend about breakfast. Another was about a discussion he’d once had on the color of socks.
Why do I have to organize this? Albert thought, tapping his pen against the desk. Isn’t it obvious? Nobody remembers these conversations!
But this was a very peculiar office—the Bureau of Forgotten Conversations—a place where conversations that had slipped through the cracks of time were carefully stored and cataloged. What happened to them after that was anyone’s guess.
Albert sighed and pulled out a sheet of paper titled: “The Discussion About Cheese from June 14, 2017.” It read:
“I’ve always said that Gouda should never be eaten on a Monday afternoon. It just doesn’t feel right.”
“I disagree,” came the response. “Gouda is timeless. It knows no boundaries.”
Albert stared at the paper. Gouda, timeless? What is going on here?
The Paper That Never Was
Suddenly, a loud whoosh echoed through the office. A paper had just appeared in front of him—unbidden, unrequested, and most certainly forgotten.
It was titled: “The Paper That Never Was.” It was blank, save for one phrase:
“This paper does not exist.”
Albert squinted at the document. How is this even a thing? He tapped the paper with his pen, waiting for something to happen. Nothing. It didn’t disappear. It didn’t evaporate. It simply… stayed there.
“Hey Albert!” a voice called out from across the room.
Albert looked up. The voice belonged to Marjorie, an extremely enthusiastic woman who was always far too cheerful for the bizarre office they worked in. “You’ve been working on that document for days! Have you found out why it doesn’t exist yet?”
Albert stared at her, blinking. Is this a joke?
“I…” he hesitated. “I think I might be losing my mind.”
Marjorie grinned. “Oh, you’re not losing your mind. We all lose our minds here at the Bureau. It’s practically a requirement.”
Albert tried to process her words, but they didn’t make sense. Doesn’t make sense… wait, didn’t she just say that?
The Man Who Forgot His Name
Just as Albert began to consider the possibility that perhaps he was in the middle of some fever dream, a man with a nametag that simply read “Who Am I?” walked by.
“Who are you?” Albert asked.
“I don’t know,” the man replied, stopping to stare at the ceiling. “But I think I forgot something important… something I was supposed to remember.”
Albert scratched his head. “Well, isn’t that the point of this place? You forget things, and then they get filed away. So, you’re probably here because you’ve… forgotten something important?”
The man looked at Albert as if the answer were both obvious and impossible. “Wait a second,” he said, pulling a small book from his pocket. “I think I remember now. I was supposed to find the missing conversation about the person who forgot their name.”
Albert blinked, slowly. “I’m sorry… what?”
But before he could process it, the man vanished with a poof, leaving behind nothing but an empty chair and the lingering scent of what could only be described as time itself running out.
The Infinite Loop of Forgetting
Albert was now sure of one thing: time, reality, and memory were all somehow intertwined in this absurd place. Why was he still here? Why was he sorting conversations that didn’t matter? It didn’t make sense. And yet, it all made sense.
A sudden realization struck him like a lightning bolt. Perhaps the conversations weren’t being forgotten at all. Perhaps they were being remembered—recycled, sifted through, and re-forgotten in a cyclical dance of absurdity.
Marjorie appeared beside him again, holding a new pile of documents. “Albert, it’s time for the weekly filing of forgotten opinions about spaghetti. Let’s get to it.”
“Spaghetti?” Albert asked, his voice barely audible. “Isn’t that…?”
“Of course,” she said, beaming. “Some people think it’s better with tomato sauce, others swear by pesto. And some even think it’s better with no sauce at all. But do any of these opinions matter? No, because we’ve already forgotten them, and that’s exactly the point.”
Albert stared at her, his thoughts scattered and fragmented. Then, as if on cue, a voice from somewhere distant but familiar whispered: “You will forget this conversation, Albert. And that, too, will be forgotten.”
The Endless Loop of Forgetting
The Bureau was a place where the lines between memory, time, and existence blurred. Albert didn’t know why he was there, or what was expected of him, but perhaps that was the true nature of the Bureau. It didn’t matter what was forgotten—it only mattered that it was forgotten.
He turned to Marjorie, ready to ask her something, but by the time his mouth opened, she was already gone. A breeze shuffled the papers on his desk, and the clock, which had never existed, chimed loudly.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized the only thing that mattered was this absurd moment. He could either laugh or cry, but laughter seemed much more fitting.
And so, he laughed.
