Once upon a time, in a world that was upside down (literally, because it was easier to find things that way), there was a little village called Forgetville. What was peculiar about this place wasn't its name, but its inhabitants: the Forgetters. The Forgetters were very special people. Not because they could fly or had superpowers, but because they forgot absolutely everything. You can't imagine how useful it is to forget everything. Really! Well, maybe not so much if they forget where they put the house keys or how to tie their shoes... but for everything else, it was very handy.
They forgot everything, all the time. If you forgot that yesterday you fell face-first into the mud, or that you said something very silly in front of your class, the day became much brighter. The Forgetters lived in an eternal present! It was like being at a never-ending party, where you didn't remember if you had eaten or not, but oh! There was the cake again!
The thing is, for the Forgetters, forgetting was a blessing. In Forgetville, there was no grudges because nobody remembered the offenses, and there was no prolonged sadness because the next day nobody knew why they were sad. Arguments faded away like a passing breeze, and people would burst into laughter again without knowing if the joke had been funny or not. They lived carefree, happy, and completely disorganized, which worked perfectly, because for something to be a mess, you first had to remember how it was before.
But as in all stories, there is always an exception. And in this one, the exception was Nilo. Nilo was a Forgetter like everyone else, at least he tried to be, but there was something about him that didn’t quite fit in. He had the strange ability, or perhaps a curse, of remembering some things. Little things at first, like how many times he had tripped on the same step in front of his house, or who had told him the same joke three times in a row (and it hadn’t been funny any of those three times).
Nilo couldn’t help it. While the others forgot with the lightness of a feather carried by the wind, he felt like there was a stone in his pocket holding him back from those little memories. At first, he didn’t pay much attention to it, but over time, those memories began to pile up. It wasn’t that he could remember everything, of course, but the most insignificant details stuck to his mind like gum on the sole of his shoe. And that made him feel strange.
For the Forgetters, remembering was almost a sacrilege. They told spooky stories (that they soon forgot, of course) about the Remembers, mythical creatures that lived outside the village, filled with memories that made them walk hunched over under the weight of years and past events. The Remembers were feared, not because they were evil, but because their very existence was a warning: remembering pulled you out of Forgetville, away from the carefree happiness of forgetting.
Nilo knew this. He had heard those stories so many times that he could almost recite them from memory, which, for a Forgetter, was as uncomfortable as wearing shoes full of stones. But still, he couldn’t ignore the feeling that something in him was different. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only one in Forgetville suffering from this strange ailment. Did the others ever feel a pang of memory, a fleeting spark that tied them to the past? Or was he the only one doomed to walk with the ghosts of things that had happened?
One day, while walking through the twisted streets of the village (where the houses also forgot how to stand straight), Nilo began to notice something more alarming: he wasn’t just remembering little details; the memories seemed to multiply. He remembered not only what he had done that morning but also what he had done the morning before, and the one before that. It was as if his mind, until then light and loose, had started to fill with heavy objects. And the more he tried to forget, the more they stuck with him.
This deeply troubled him. Forgetville wasn’t designed for people like him. The whole system of the village relied on collective amnesia. People forgot to pay debts, to keep promises, to remember birthdays, and everyone lived perfectly well with that. But Nilo was starting to notice patterns. He knew how many times his neighbor, Mr. Clumsy, had lost his hat in the same week. He knew that the butcher always forgot to trim her nails and that the baker always baked a chocolate cake on Thursdays, even though no one remembered ordering it. The village worked because everyone forgot that it didn’t work. And Nilo was a broken piece in that machinery.
Days passed, and Nilo began to feel more and more apart from the others. He could predict things that no other Forgetter could. He knew that every third day, Mrs. Gloomy would lose her train of thought just before saying something important because he had seen it happen so many times that his mind had registered it. He knew that the clock in the main square had been stuck at three o'clock for years, and that no one had fixed it because by the time someone noticed, they had already forgotten it again.
The feeling of being trapped between two worlds—the joyful world of forgetting and the silent world of remembering—consumed him. Then one morning, the unthinkable happened: Nilo woke up and remembered everything he had done the day before. And the day before that. He remembered every conversation, every gesture, every step he had taken. It wasn’t just a collection of useless memories; it was as if an invisible veil had been lifted from his mind.
He felt panic. He knew that no one in Forgetville would understand what was happening to him. He was an outcast in a place where everyone reveled in forgetting. If anyone else discovered what was happening, they would consider him a budding Rememberer. And everyone knew what that meant: being exiled from Forgetville. Or worse yet, being forgotten completely, as if he had never existed.
Terrified by the idea of becoming a Rememberer, Nilo decided he had to do something. He couldn't continue living in the village as if nothing was happening, and he couldn't bear the burden of memories. He had heard vague rumors about a solution. Some said that deep in the forest surrounding the village, there was a place where Rememberers had once gone to rid themselves of their memories, a place where forgetting could be permanent.
Nilo knew he had to find that place. There was no other option. If he wanted to remain a Forgetter, if he wanted to continue living without the weight of memories, he had to venture beyond the safe boundaries of Forgetville and search for the source of forgetting. Because if there was one thing a Forgetter couldn’t endure, it was remembering.
Nilo decided to leave at dawn, or at least he thought so, because in Forgetville no one knew for sure when the day began or ended. The sun, like everything else, had the bad habit of forgetting to rise or set. Sometimes, the sky would remain in a state of indefinite twilight for weeks. But Nilo didn’t care, not now that his head was filled with memories tormenting him, as if each step anchored him more and more to the past. If he didn’t do something soon, he would become what he feared most: a Rememberer.
The forest that surrounded Forgetville had always been there, just out of sight, but none of the Forgetters ventured too far into it. Not out of fear, of course, but because they forgot it existed. The paths leading to the forest were lost in the underbrush, covered by the leaves of the trees that, like everything else in this world, also forgot how to hold their branches properly. The place had a strange atmosphere of abandonment, but Nilo knew he had to move forward.
Aquí tienes la continuación de la traducción de "Los Olvidosos":
As he walked, the silence of the forest grew thicker. It wasn’t an empty silence, but one laden with echoes. It was as if each step he took lifted the voices of forgotten memories resonating among the twisted trunks. It was almost as if the forest itself remembered things that the Forgetters had lost forever. But that didn’t stop Nilo. He felt he was closer to what he was seeking, even though he wasn’t quite sure what it was.
After what felt like an eternity (because, without a sense of time, anything in the forest could last a second or a century), Nilo reached a clearing. In the center stood a huge rock covered in moss, and around it, the air vibrated strangely, as if the leaves themselves were whispering things they could hardly remember. He realized this must be the place he had heard about in the rumors. This was the heart of forgetting.
But he was not alone.
Around the rock were spectral figures. They weren’t monsters, nor were they quite people, but shadows of what they once were. They were the Rememberers, and their bodies were wrapped in layers of memories. They looked heavy and slow, as if each memory they carried forced them to crawl just a little closer to the ground. The shadows of their former selves were barely recognizable, but what troubled Nilo most was not their appearance, but the fact that, although they were completely immersed in their memories, they did not move or say anything. They simply existed.
Nilo felt a shiver run down his spine. He hadn’t imagined the Rememberers to be like this. The stories from his village described them as gloomy beings, tormented by a past they couldn’t let go of. But in reality, they seemed resigned. They lived tangled in their memories as if caught in a web they no longer tried to escape from. And seeing them there, still, wrapped in their own past lives, Nilo felt a pang of understanding.
Those Rememberers hadn’t always been this way. It wasn’t their choice to remember everything. They had started out like him—Forgetters who, for some reason, had been unable to rid themselves of their memories. But at some point, they had crossed a line. They had become the guardians of the forgotten, containers of all those things that others had left behind. Because even though the Forgetters forgot, memories didn’t disappear; they simply transferred to these beings who were now chained by the weight of what they couldn’t let go of.
Nilo moved slowly, feeling the invisible pull of memories in the air. He knew he was playing with fire. Every step he took toward this place of ultimate forgetting brought him closer to becoming one of them. But what other option did he have? If he couldn’t find a way to forget what he had accumulated in his mind, he would end up trapped in that same web, losing forever the lightness that had characterized his life as a Forgetter.
As he approached the large moss-covered rock, Nilo felt an ancient presence, almost as if the stone itself had a consciousness. The rock was the center of forgetting, the place where Rememberers came to surrender their memories, to shed them, and in turn, to be completely forgotten. For a Rememberer, that was the final destination. There was no turning back. Letting go of their memories made them so light that they disappeared into the air, like a sigh in the breeze.
Nilo, however, was not ready for that fate. He didn’t want to disappear. He just wanted to be free from the weight he had begun to accumulate in his mind. But how could he do that without losing himself in the process?
Then, something curious happened. Nilo, carrying all his memories, felt a resistance within him. It was as if a part of him didn’t want to forget. For the first time, he thought about what it truly meant to forget. Until now, memories had been a torment, something that pulled him away from the light, carefree life of the Forgetters. But wasn’t there something valuable in remembering? Perhaps not everything should be forgotten. Maybe memories, though heavy, had their purpose.
And it was then that he understood: the Rememberers weren’t monsters or sad creatures by accident. They had chosen to remember, knowing that someone had to do so. They understood that while living in forgetfulness was easy, someone needed to keep the world’s history. Because if everyone forgot, what would remain?
Nilo realized he had a choice. He could stay in the clearing, surrender to complete forgetting, and disappear, or he could return to Olvidonia with the weight of his memories but with the ability to give them meaning. It wouldn’t be easy, of course. Being the only one who remembered in a village of forgetters would be a burden. But perhaps, just perhaps, there was something important in being the guardian of those little stories, in ensuring that the past didn’t fade away completely.
So, with a deep breath, Nilo turned around and left behind the clearing, the rock, and the Rememberers. He wasn’t ready to join them—not yet. He knew he would carry the weight of memories with him, but he also understood that there was value in that. Someone in Olvidonia needed to remember. And although the others would never know, he would be there to make sure their story, everyone’s story, didn’t vanish entirely.
As he made his way back through the forest, he felt each step bringing him closer to home. Olvidonia would welcome him as always, with the same distracted smiles, the same forgotten cakes, and repeated jokes. No one would notice the difference. No one would know what he had experienced. But Nilo would know, and that, he thought, was enough.
Forgetfulness was a blessing, yes, but there was also something powerful in remembering, in being the guardian of the little things that make one day different from another. And for the first time in a long time, Nilo didn’t feel the weight of his memories as a curse.
And that was the story of Nilo. Will he still be among us? We don’t know; we don’t remember his appearance. But before you go, I want to tell you a story. It happened a long time ago, and it all begins with a title, a title that defines my village…