Chapter 1: The Most Unforgettable Forgetfulness
Wilfred Hargrove had a memory like a sieve. It wasn’t that he was forgetful in the charming, bumbling-professor way, but rather that everywhere he went, other people forgot things too. It was as though he carried around an aura of selective amnesia, and the world simply complied.
He’d walk into a bakery and five customers would suddenly forget their orders. At the grocery store, shoppers would stand holding milk and bread, gazing into the distance, stumped by the purpose of their existence. Wilfred blamed it on his cologne (Essence de Yawn), but the truth was far more mysterious.
Living in the small, odd town of Bumblescratch didn’t help. Bumblescratch itself was a sort of way station for the mildly peculiar, the semi-magical, and the almost-forgotten. The town was famous for its annual Festival of Lost Socks, its Museum of Misplaced Umbrellas, and its local legend: the Veil of Forgotten Dreams.
No one quite remembered what the Veil was, but everyone agreed it was mysterious, and possibly knitted out of dreams no one could remember having. In short, Wilfred felt at home.
One early summer morning, Wilfred awoke to find a note on his pillow. Well, not exactly a note. It was a napkin with the words “Don’t forget!” scribbled on it in purple crayon. There was no indication of what not to forget. He squinted, trying to recall who left it—but his mind was as blank as the napkin’s reverse side.
Wilfred sighed, pulled on his slippers (one blue, one suspiciously missing a toe), and shuffled to the kitchen. The cat, Mrs. Whiskerson, stared at him accusingly from her perch atop the fridge.
Morning, Mrs. Whiskerson, Wilfred said, nodding. She responded by knocking an empty mug to the floor, which shattered.
Thanks, Wilfred mumbled, picking up the pieces. Why do I always feel like I’m forgetting something?
Mrs. Whiskerson, as always, offered no answer, but she did swish her tail in a way that seemed to say: That’s your problem, not mine.
Outside, the sun shone on the tidy hedges and the slightly less tidy sign at the end of the street: “Welcome to Bumblescratch: You probably meant to pass through.”
Wilfred decided he needed to get to the bottom of his forgetfulness. After all, if you can’t remember what you’re supposed to remember, how can you remember to worry about it?
Chapter 2: The Club of Unmemorable People
That morning, Wilfred wandered into Bumblescratch’s only café, The Absentminded Barista. It was run by a woman named Dotty, whose memory was so porous she served coffee in teapots and tea in vases and once gave a customer a bowl of warm marbles.
This, naturally, was Wilfred’s favorite place. He ordered something he immediately forgot, and Dotty served him something she immediately forgot making.
As he stirred his cup, someone slid into the seat across from him. It was Ethel Jenkins, chairwoman of the town Historical Society (and an expert in forgetting where she put the minutes).
Wilfred, Ethel whispered, do you remember what day it is?
Wilfred pondered. He remembered today was not yesterday, but it might be tomorrow. He shook his head.
Nor do I! Ethel said, delighted. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a tattered pamphlet. It was titled “The Club of Unmemorable People.”
We meet every week. Or is it every other week? she said. But I can’t remember where we meet.
Wilfred brightened. A club! For people like him!
This week, said Ethel, we’re going to solve the mystery of the Veil of Forgotten Dreams. Did you know it’s supposed to be somewhere in town?
Wilfred shook his head. He’d heard of the Veil, of course, but only as a punchline to jokes told by the barber, who always forgot the ending.
You should come to the meeting! Ethel urged. If you remember.
Wilfred scribbled the word “Club” on his napkin and tucked it into his pocket.
He finished his coffee (or was it soup?) and left the café with the feeling that he’d just agreed to something important, but couldn’t for the life of him say what it was.
Chapter 3: The Meeting of the Forgetful Minds
The Club of Unmemorable People met in the back room of the Bumblescratch Library. Or, rather, they planned to meet there, but sometimes forgot and convened in the janitor’s closet or under the social studies section.
Wilfred found the group by following the sound of uncertain murmurs and the faint scent of mothballs. Ten people sat in a rough circle, each clutching an object they couldn’t quite recall the purpose of—a shoehorn, a watering can, a ladle, what looked suspiciously like a broken barometer.
Welcome, said Ethel, who presided over the meeting with the air of someone who’d misplaced the agenda. Today, as you may or may not remember, we are searching for the Veil of Forgotten Dreams. Who has any ideas?
A man named Mortimer raised his hand. I remember dreaming about a sandwich once. It was ham. Or possibly cheese.
Very helpful, Mortimer, said Ethel. Anyone else?
Wilfred fidgeted. I think… I think maybe the Veil is in the attic of the old town hall. Or was it the basement?
The group nodded approvingly, as if this made perfect sense.
We should split up, suggested Gladys, who was knitting a scarf and had lost count of the stitches somewhere around fifty… or maybe five.
Excellent, said Ethel. Let’s all forget what we’re supposed to be doing and meet back here next time. Or wherever we remember to go.
The group dispersed in a cloud of vague determination. Wilfred, determined, set out for the old town hall.
He was halfway there when he realized he’d forgotten why he was going.
The napkin in his pocket, now slightly soggy, read simply: Club.
Well, at least he had that.
Chapter 4: The Attic of Maybe
The old town hall was a creaky, dusty building that had seen better centuries. Wilfred crept inside, past a sign that read “Town Council Meeting: 1947.”
He climbed the stairs to the attic, which was filled with boxes labeled “Unclaimed,” “Miscellaneous,” and one simply marked “Stuff.”
He poked through the detritus. There were old hats, half a surfboard, a jar of buttons, and a mysterious velvet curtain draped over a chair.
Wilfred pulled the curtain aside, expecting perhaps to find the Veil of Forgotten Dreams—or at least a forgotten sandwich—but discovered only dust and an abandoned puppet theater.
He sneezed violently, causing a flock of pigeons to take flight from the rafters and a rain of childhood report cards to flutter down from a shelf.
He examined the velvet curtain. It felt… odd, like something on the tip of his tongue. Or the edge of a thought he almost remembered.
He wrapped himself in it, feeling faintly ridiculous, and imagined he was invisible.
If this was the Veil, it wasn’t particularly magical. Unless you counted the sudden urge to nap. He yawned, sank into a decrepit armchair, and was asleep in moments.
He dreamed of floating through clouds of marshmallow, chased by the scent of cinnamon and the sound of laughter. He woke with a start, certain he’d remembered something important, then promptly forgot what it was.
He stumbled out of the attic, curtain draped over his shoulder, and headed for home.
Maybe the Club would have more luck.
Chapter 5: A Dream, Half-Remembered
That night, Wilfred lay in bed, the velvet curtain hanging over the footboard. Mrs. Whiskerson kneaded his chest with determined paws as he drifted into sleep.
He dreamed he was hosting a dinner party. The guests were all people he’d met but couldn’t recall. They wore masks made of clouds and spoke in riddles. The food was invisible, but delicious.
At the head of the table, an old woman with twinkling eyes lifted her glass.
To dreams forgotten and found again, she said. May we remember what matters and forget the rest.
Wilfred awoke with a start. The memory of the dream slid away, just out of reach, but he felt lighter somehow, as if he’d left his worries somewhere between sleep and waking.
He sat up. The velvet curtain shimmered faintly in the dawn.
Maybe, just maybe, this was the Veil of Forgotten Dreams.
He shrugged. If he forgot, he could always check his napkin.
Chapter 6: A Parade of Oddities
The following day, Bumblescratch hosted the Festival of Lost Socks. The main event: a parade of people wearing mismatched socks, each one holding a sign bearing the name of a long-lost item (“Gary’s Left Glove,” “The Key to My Shed,” “My Motivation”).
Wilfred, wearing the velvet curtain like a shawl and two wildly different socks, joined the throng.
Ethel sidled up, waving a spatula. Did you find anything in the attic?
Wilfred held out the curtain. I think this might be it.
Ethel gasped. That’s… something!
The Club of Unmemorable People gathered around, each offering opinions as to the curtain’s origin. Some swore it was the lost cloak of the mayor’s great-aunt. Others insisted it was just a stage prop.
A small boy tumbled past, tripped on his own shoelace, and landed at Wilfred’s feet.
What’s that? the boy asked, peering up.
I think it’s the Veil of Forgotten Dreams, Wilfred said.
The boy’s eyes widened. I dreamed once that I could fly. But I forgot how.
Wilfred draped the curtain over the boy’s shoulders. Go on, then.
The boy grinned, flapped his arms, and took off running, leaping over puddles, laughing as though he really could soar.
The crowd cheered. Or maybe they were cheering for the sock parade. In Bumblescratch, it was hard to tell.
Chapter 7: The Inscription
After the festival, Wilfred returned home, now minus one curtain. Mrs. Whiskerson eyed him suspiciously, as if to say, Another one gone?
Wilfred poured himself a cup of tea (or perhaps broth—it was hard to tell), and sat in his favorite chair. He felt a strange peace, as if a weight had lifted.
He noticed, for the first time, a small label sewn into his shirt. He squinted.
It read, “Property of W.H. If found, please remember to return.”
He smiled. Maybe some things were meant to be forgotten, so we could remember what really mattered.
He picked up Mrs. Whiskerson, who promptly forgot she was mad at him, and together they watched the sun set over Bumblescratch.
Chapter 8: Club Revelations
At the next Club of Unmemorable People meeting, Wilfred recounted his adventures with the curtain.
Ethel declared it a resounding success. We may not remember everything, but we did something! she proclaimed.
Mortimer, still uncertain about his sandwich dream, congratulated Wilfred on “almost finding the thing we almost remembered.”
Gladys gifted Wilfred a scarf of indeterminate length, saying, I forgot to stop knitting.
Wilfred wrapped the scarf around his neck, grinning.
The Club agreed to keep searching for forgotten dreams, just in case there were more veils to find.
Chapter 9: The Mayor’s Speech
At the closing ceremony of the Festival of Lost Socks, the mayor, a forgetful chap named Leonard, delivered a moving—or at least meandering—speech.
We gather here, he said, probably for a reason. Sometimes, we forget things—where we put our keys, the names of our neighbors, why I’m standing here right now.
But Bumblescratch remembers what others forget: that life is full of dreams, lost and found, left in old attics, or paraded down the street in mismatched socks.
So let’s raise a glass, or a sock, to forgotten dreams and the joy of rediscovering them.
The crowd cheered, wave after wave of socks fluttering in the air.
Chapter 10: The True Veil
Walking home, Wilfred realized the Veil of Forgotten Dreams wasn’t a curtain or a cloth, but a feeling—a fog that lifted when you allowed yourself to be a little silly, a little lost, a little free.
He thought of the boy who wanted to fly, of the friends in his club, of the town that celebrated what everyone else ignored.
He laughed, and for once, he remembered exactly why.
Mrs. Whiskerson, perched on the windowsill, seemed to approve.
Chapter 11: Epilogue—A Dream Remembered
Years later, visitors to Bumblescratch would ask about the legendary Veil.
They’d be shown a faded napkin in the town museum, the one that said “Don’t forget!”—no one knew who had written it, or what it meant.
And somewhere, in the attic of the old town hall, a velvet curtain hung quietly, waiting for the next dreamer to forget themselves just long enough to remember what it felt like to dream.
Wilfred, now a town legend himself, would tell new arrivals that the only thing worth remembering was how to laugh at yourself—and to always check your pockets for messages you’d left for yourself.
As the sun set over Bumblescratch, the town hummed with half-remembered dreams and the certainty that some things were best left a little fuzzy around the edges.
And somewhere, a boy with a curtain on his shoulders leapt over puddles, convinced he was flying, and maybe, just maybe, he was.
The end.