Memory Inheritance Tax | Weekly Short-Short Note

Around the time the forty-nine days since my father's death had passed, a gray envelope arrived in the mail.
"Memory Inheritance Tax: Payment Due Notice"
On that paper, stamped with an unfamiliar government seal, was the total volume of "memories" I had inherited from my father, converted into a staggering sum of money.
The designated place for payment was the "Memory Tax Office," located in the basement of an old, multi-tenant building on the outskirts of town.
"Is this some kind of scam?"
I shoved the documents at the pale-faced clerk sitting behind the counter. The man replied in a voice devoid of any emotion.
"No, this is a legitimate collection based on the law. You have inherited a great deal of 'affection,' 'memories of happy family meals,' and 'unconditional love' from the deceased. These are extremely valuable as spiritual assets. Naturally, you must pay the corresponding tax."
The method of payment the man presented was not money.
"Payment in kind"—offering up other memories in my possession.
"If you wish to continue holding onto your father's memories, please surrender your 'memories of first love' and 'the sense of accomplishment from five years of your twenties.' That will offset the balance."
I was speechless. To protect the memories of my father, I had to carve out parts of my own memories. But I couldn't bear the thought of the memory of him calling my name with a smile in his final moments disappearing.
"I understand. Please do it."
I was led to a room in the back and restrained in a cold, mechanical chair. My head was fixed in place, and sharp terminals were pierced into my temples.
"Now, we will begin the collection. Your brain will feel a little lighter, you know?"
As the machine let out a low hum, I felt something "peel away" inside me. The face of someone precious, the heat that once scorched my heart, the afterimages of nights spent working recklessly and shedding tears. They were being sucked out like a vacuum cleaner, vanishing from my consciousness.
A few minutes later, I was released and walked into the hallway with unsteady feet. Inside my head, my father's smile was certainly there. The fact that my father had loved me was preserved.
—Something is wrong.
Even as I looked at those memories, I felt nothing.
I remembered the episodes in detail, how kind my father had been. However, in the heart that looked upon them, no emotion, no gratitude, not even loneliness welled up. Only a sense of emptiness, like watching a documentary film, spread through me.
"Ah, I see..."
I stared at the man with empty eyes reflected in the mirror.
The tax office hadn't just stolen my "memories." They had collected the very function of the heart that allows one to feel that those memories are "precious" as tax.
Holding onto the memories of my father that I had wanted to protect, I realized I could now only think of them as trash, and I laughed without a sound.

(End)

I am participating in Tarahakani-san's project, "Weekly Short-Short Note."
The theme is "Memory Inheritance Tax."

I feel like there was a similar story on "Tales of the Unusual" back in the day, or maybe not...

Please enjoy this as well.