You inherit something. Something mundane–let’s make it a serving plate with bevelled edges or something–that you keep because you remember from your childhood. For a while it sits in the cupboard: untouched, revered.
But there will come a time when you will look down at your hands, stained red with the blood of the human heart you are preparing for use in a dark ritual (or from slicing a tomato) and you’ll realise you’re using THAT plate.
You will find yourself frozen for a moment in your blasphemy. Red drips from your hands.
But it’s okay: because a plate was meant to be a plate. And even if you stain it, or it falls from the bench and shatters, the world will move on, you will move on and that plate you kept for some reason is still just a plate, whether or not it’s in pieces on the floor or in your cupboard.
In the end, only memories that are real. And in the ending after that, even your memories will fade away.