The Keepsakes were strange, even to me, if only because they were always together. I saw them first when they swept merrily past my open door and I was drawn as much to their ethereal sighs as to the parasols they each carried. The sight of those pastel accessories paired with the dowdy dresses the Vault required us to wear was too curious to ignore, and I hurried to the hall for a second look.

The fact that they still existed was not yet impressive. They were fond memories and only three years old, on the short end of the life expectancy for happy Mems. Whether they were self-aware was what prompted the staff to observe them obsessively, for though they never spoke except to whimsically utter their lover’s name, those utterances seemed to prompt or intensify their collective sighs.

The evening that the eldest Keepsake plucked a down feather from another’s loose hair, Harvey and a congregation of students descended on the sitting room for further observation. It hardly looked like science. There were no test tubes or gloves, as in the newsreels. They wore no protective glasses. Mostly, Harvey instructed one student or another to sit increasingly closer to the three and then, when the girls made no response, all members of the staff scribbled furiously. After that, they tried standing in what appeared to be the trio’s line of sight. Again, the girls made no reaction, and again, the men annotated their annotations.

Finally, I approached, sitting beside the eldest.

“Hello.”

She didn’t respond. I turned to Harvey, who’d said nothing of my intrusion.

“May I have a feather?”

He delegated the task of retrieval to a member of his team, and when a pillow was dissected and the feather given, I put it in my hair. The eldest took no notice. Removing it from my own, I went to the Keepsake seated next to her and placed the feather in her hair instead. I only had time to step back before the eldest smiled, lovingly pulling it out again. Behind me, there was a symphony of scribbling. When I turned, the gathered men looked at me expectantly.

“I think it’s part of her memory,” I concluded.

“Something he did for her.”

“Or maybe she did it herself,” a second staff member posited over the theory of the first. “Maybe while looking in the mirror.”

“That’s why she only sees it when it’s in one of her lookalikes’ hair.”

“Get a mirror.”

Harvey had yet to look away from me.

“Did that help?” I asked when he didn’t offer thanks.

The deep breath he took drew his head slightly back. “Yes. Thank you, Dolores.”