The Girl Who Collected Sunsets

They first noticed her at the edge of the hill every evening—always five minutes before the sun dipped behind the horizon. It was like clockwork. No matter the weather, no matter the season, there she was, as constant as the sun itself.

She never missed a day. Not even when the sky was grey and the clouds swallowed the light. It didn’t matter if it rained or the winds howled; Aftaab came.

She was an enigma, a quiet presence. She arrived with her sketchbook, a silver pen, and a small wooden box that seemed too humble for such an important task.

Nobody knew her name for a long time, so the villagers called her Aftaab, meaning sunlight. It seemed fitting. She came when the sun left, and her presence filled the space where the fading light lingered.

The children, full of wonder and curiosity, asked her once, “What do you do here every day?”

Aftaab smiled, but she didn’t answer. There was something peaceful about her silence—a kind of quiet mystery that drew people in but didn’t push them to pry. Her stillness felt like a kind of sacred ritual, something personal, something they weren’t meant to understand fully.

But little Zari, only 11 years old, wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t content with just watching Aftaab. She needed to know why the woman was so drawn to the sunset, why she felt the need to be there every single day.

One evening, while the others were distracted by the village festivities, Zari quietly followed Aftaab to the hilltop. She pretended to pick wildflowers, pretending to mind her own business while keeping a watchful eye on the woman.

As the sun began to sink below the horizon, Aftaab settled on the stone bench and opened the wooden box. Zari crouched behind a large rock, trying her best to stay out of sight.

Aftaab removed a folded piece of paper from the box and unfolded it slowly. It had a date on it:

“March 4: The sky was wounded orange today. It reminded me of the day my father left, promising to return. He never did. But the sky still does.”

Zari’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t understand at first. But as she watched, Aftaab carefully placed the note back into the box, then took out another.

“June 9: The clouds were heavy with secrets. I whispered mine to the wind.”

Zari’s heart skipped a beat. Aftaab wasn’t just watching sunsets. She was collecting them, preserving their stories. She wasn’t recording the colors, the shapes, or the beauty of the sky. She was recording feelings—emotions linked to the changing skies, feelings of loss, of love, of memories made and left behind. Each sunset, it seemed, was a chapter of her life she couldn’t bear to forget.

Zari felt an overwhelming sense of wonder, but also a deep sadness for the woman. There was so much pain in those words, in the way Aftaab carefully documented her memories, trying to hold on to pieces of a world that kept slipping away.

When Zari accidentally tripped on a branch, she froze. Aftaab turned to face her, her eyes soft and understanding.

“You want to know why I do this?” Aftaab asked, her voice a gentle whisper in the cool evening air.

Zari, her eyes wide with curiosity, nodded.

Aftaab’s gaze softened as she looked toward the horizon, watching the sun’s final moments. “When I was younger, I lost people. Some to death, others to time. I couldn’t hold on to them, no matter how hard I tried. So, I began to hold on to something else.” She held up her wooden box, its simplicity at odds with the significance it carried. “I started holding on to the sunsets. They reminded me that nothing truly leaves—it just changes form. The sun never really leaves. It just disappears for a while, and then it returns.”

Zari stood still, absorbing her words. She felt the weight of the woman’s story, as though the very air around them held its breath. Then, as if sensing Zari’s unspoken question, Aftaab handed her a piece of paper and the silver pen.

“Write today’s sky.”

Zari took the pen hesitantly and wrote:

“It looked like melted peach ice cream. It felt like my mother’s lullaby.”

Aftaab placed the paper into the box, nodding her approval. “Well done.”

Years passed.

The girl continued to visit the hilltop every day, her ritual unwavering. The woman, however, grew older. Her silver pen became shakier, her steps slower. But she never stopped.

Then, one day, she didn’t come.

The villagers waited. Zari waited.

She climbed the hilltop on the third day, her heart heavy with an unspoken dread. At the top, she found the wooden box, waiting for her beneath the stone bench. It was heavier than before.

Inside, a final folded note rested, waiting:

“If you’re reading this, I’ve joined the sunset. Do not cry. I did not leave. I only changed form.”

“Now, keep collecting. Teach others. Let no sunset go unwitnessed.”

Zari’s tears fell, but she smiled, a bittersweet understanding settling in her heart.

Today, people from nearby towns hike to that same hilltop. Not for selfies. Not for silence.

But to write.

To fold paper.

To whisper pain into poetry.

To turn grief into glowing skies.

Zari, now an adult, leads them.

And every night, as the sun dips, a hundred strips of folded hope fill the hilltop.

They say if you visit during sunset, the air hums with stories. Some say you can hear a woman’s laughter in the breeze.

And when the clouds turn soft pink and orange, it means Aftaab is watching.

Still collecting. Still shining.