The Man Who Sold Time

By Mohib

“Every moment you give is a piece of your life — make sure you give it to what truly matters.”

In the heart of an old town stood a clockmaker named Yusuf, a quiet man whose shop ticked with hundreds of clocks — small ones, grand ones, some that chimed, and others that whispered the soft rhythm of time itself. People said that when you entered his shop, you could feel time slow down, as if the world outside had forgotten to rush.

Yusuf wasn’t just a craftsman. He was a listener — to gears, to silence, to the unseen heartbeat that pulsed beneath every second. But no one knew his secret: the clocks in his shop weren’t ordinary. They ran on something deeper than springs and pendulums. They ran on his own life.

The First Sale

Years ago, Yusuf had discovered something extraordinary. While repairing a broken pocket watch, he realized he could infuse it with his own energy — not just time, but his time. When the customer wore it, the hours seemed to stretch; moments of peace lasted longer. The man returned a week later, eyes full of gratitude.

“I don’t know what you did,” he said, “but for the first time, I felt I had time to breathe.”

That night, Yusuf looked at his reflection and noticed his hands had aged ever so slightly. His hair carried a new streak of silver. He had given away more than time — he had given away a piece of his life.

Still, the joy of helping others outweighed the fear of what he was losing.

And so, Yusuf began to sell his clocks — not for money, but for moments. To the exhausted mother who never had a quiet minute. To the old man who wanted to relive one last sunset. To the young student drowning in deadlines.

Each left his shop lighter, calmer, more alive.

And each time, Yusuf’s reflection grew a little older.

The Stranger’s Request

One winter evening, as snow whispered against the glass, a woman entered the shop. Her eyes carried both warmth and sorrow.

“I heard,” she said softly, “that you can give people more time.”

Yusuf nodded. “For those who truly need it.”

She placed a small locket on the counter. Inside was a faded picture of a child.

“My son is sick,” she said. “They say he won’t make it through the night. If you could just give him a few more hours…”

Her voice trembled. “Just enough for him to see the morning.”

Yusuf’s heart tightened. He looked at the hundreds of clocks around him, each ticking with pieces of his life. Without hesitation, he reached for the largest one — a golden clock that hung above his workbench.

“I can give him the morning,” he said, his voice steady. “But it will cost me dearly.”

She tried to stop him, but Yusuf smiled gently. “A sunrise is worth any price.”

That night, Yusuf sat alone in his shop, watching the hands of the golden clock move backward. Each tick echoed like a heartbeat fading into silence.

When dawn broke, the woman’s son opened his eyes to the light of a new day.

But in the shop, the clocks had all stopped.

The Last Tick

When they found Yusuf, he was sitting peacefully at his bench, surrounded by still clocks and the faint smell of cedar and oil. His hands were folded, and his face carried the calm of someone who had finally run out of moments — but not of meaning.

The townspeople reopened his shop as a memorial. None of the clocks would ever work again, no matter who tried to fix them. But visitors swore that, for a few seconds inside that room, the air felt softer — as if time itself paused to honor the man who had given it away.

Epilogue

They called him The Man Who Sold Time, but Yusuf never sold anything.

He gave.

And in the end, the time he gave others became the eternity he earned.

“Some people measure life by the years they live. Others, by the moments they give.”