Some do not think much of themselves, yet think of themselves too much. Gumley was a man who thought very little of himself, and thought of himself very little. He wore clothes that had no opinion, shoes that made an apologetic squeak when treading along the ground. Having reached his physical peak at the age of eighteen when he stood at five-feet and six-inches, and weighed exactly as much as a person of that height was expected to, Gumley had not so much developed into adulthood as he had simply continued to be. If he was ever afforded the opportunity to meet people, they’d most likely struggle to recall whether they’d actually met and spoken to him, or just seen a man that looked very much like someone who could be called “Gumley”, or something of that nature.

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Each morning Gumley would arrive at his desk, located at the end of a long, cold corridor, absent of windows and with one fluorescent light bulb that flickered ever so slightly, almost not enough to be noticeable, that hung from a beam stretching from one wall to the other. Lining the walls on all sides, and stretching so far up that they were swallowed by the dark void overhead, were cardboard boxes, battered and faded. He had never met his employer, nor any colleagues, and was not, in fact, entirely sure how he came to be employed here, but he was nonetheless, and this was an acceptable situation for him.

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Gumley’s job was a simple one, of filing, categorising and labelling. A file would land on his desk, bound with a thin twine, which he would then browse and document in a large ledger. Examples of these include ‘The name of that teacher with the scar’ or ‘Where I left the garage key’. He would then store them away on the side of the room on which stood the shelves with boxes marked, Forgotten.

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Occasionally, the files were more abstract. 'When I got to the final stage of that job interview,' one read. One of his favourites had been, 'The time I nearly said I loved her.' These were supposed to be placed under Almosts, a subcategory of Forgotten, located just beside Regrets. On the opposite side of the room were such shelves as Nice Meals, Holidays, First Loves and Birthdays.

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There was currently no system to where the boxes went. There once was, then somewhere between fifty-seven and seventy-four AD, he took a brief holiday, and when he returned, the situation was simply too far gone. Now, he stood from his desk, files in hand, and walked between the towering stacks until the right box revealed itself. Sometimes it was only a few steps away. Sometimes he walked for hours, though his legs were beginning to ache and he was growing tired, and the walk took him longer than it had many years ago.

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Gumley was due to retire soon. What would happen to the memories then was anybody’s guess. Perhaps they would keep piling up for eternity.