Marin Tessier's job is to make people believe the system over their own memories.
At the Department of Narrative Compliance, Marin sits across from the grieving, the wronged, and the merely confused, and helps them accept the Record's official version of their own lives — because the Record has cameras, biometric logs, beacon pings, and continuous documentation, and memory has only itself. Marin is good at this work. Patient. Thorough. Effective. Marin believes in it, mostly.
Then a system migration failure collapses a transit platform, and Ilya — Marin's partner of years — disappears into the wreckage without a body, without a beacon signal, without a single frame of footage that confirms what happened. A gap. The one thing the Record was built to make impossible.
Marin's investigation into the collapse turns up something worse than an accident: evidence that Ilya knew, in advance, exactly when the framework would fail — and said nothing. What began as a search for a missing person becomes a reckoning with what Marin has spent a career refusing to ask: what do you owe the truth when the evidence and the person you love point in opposite directions?
The Record is a quiet, character-driven dystopia about the architecture of belief — about grief that won't be filed, love that won't be verified, and the parts of a life no system can capture. For readers of literary speculative fiction who want their surveillance-state stories to ache as much as they unsettle.