The Memoir Mines burrow deep beneath the bones of Threadbare — a labyrinth of tunnels gouged in pursuit of memory itself. Each shaft was once a person's life, dug out story by story, each chamber a year, each glittering vein a remembered face. Now the lanterns are dim, and the mines echo only in fragments: a lullaby with no singer, the smell of a meal no one cooked, the name of a friend lost to the dark. The Memory Moths flit between the tunnels on book-page wings, gathering the brightest shards to carry up to the surface, hoping a StoryWeaver will know what to do with them.