The Boy Who Collected Sunsets

Ayan was a twelve-year-old boy who lived in a small seaside town. His home was a tiny house on top of a hill, painted light blue by his father many years ago. From his bedroom window, Ayan could see the ocean stretching far and wide, the waves rolling in like whispers from another world.

Ayan had a strange habit, one that made the grown-ups smile and the children laugh. He collected sunsets.

Of course, no one could actually collect a sunset. You couldn’t put it in a box or keep it in your pocket. But that didn’t stop Ayan. Every evening, he would run to the top of the hill with a small glass jar, hold it high in the air, and wait for the sun to touch the ocean. When the sky filled with colors—orange, gold, pink, sometimes purple—he would shut the lid of the jar with a loud click.

“I caught today’s sunset!” he would say proudly.

His father would laugh. “And what will you do with all these sunsets, my boy?”

“I will save them,” Ayan answered. “One day I’ll need them.”

Ayan didn’t know why he felt this way, but he believed it with all his heart.

He kept the jars on a wooden shelf in his room. Each jar had a small label with a date written in his neat handwriting. The jars looked normal—just ordinary empty jars—but Ayan knew they were filled with something magical. When he held one in his hands, he felt warm, like the sun was smiling at him from inside the glass.

Life was simple until the winter his father lost his job at the harbor. The fishing boats stopped coming because the waters had become too dangerous. Storms were stronger now, winds colder, waves taller. Many families left the town, searching for work in faraway cities. Ayan could see worry growing in his father’s eyes, like dark clouds waiting to rain.

Their home started feeling colder, even when the heater was on. Their fridge was often half-empty. Ayan’s father tried to stay strong, but some nights Ayan could hear him sigh heavily.

One evening, after a long day of searching for work, his father sat at the table staring at a stack of unpaid bills. His hands were shaking. Ayan quietly walked to his room and took one of the jars from the shelf. It was labeled “June 18: The Warm Sunset”. He remembered that day clearly—the sky had been bright like a glowing fire.

He walked back to his father and placed the jar gently on the table.

“This is for you,” Ayan whispered.

His father looked confused. “Ayan… it’s just a jar.”

“No,” the boy said softly. “It’s a good day. You can open it.”

His father wanted to smile, but he was too tired. Still, he opened the jar.

Nothing came out. No burst of light. No warm breeze. Just silence.

But Ayan’s father suddenly felt something strange—something soft inside his chest. It wasn’t warmth exactly, but the memory of warmth. He could almost see the bright orange sky from that summer day. For a moment, he remembered what hope felt like.

He touched Ayan’s hair gently. “Thank you,” he said in a voice that sounded a little stronger.

From that day, whenever the worry became too much, Ayan gave his father another jar. Each one reminded him of a day when things were better. Slowly, his father began to stand straighter, walk with more confidence, and search for work with real determination.

But the storms kept growing worse. One night a giant wave hit the shore and destroyed several fishing buildings. The town felt broken, and the people feared the sea.

Ayan kept collecting sunsets anyway.

One evening, while Ayan was running toward the hill, he saw a group of townspeople watching the sky with sad faces. The sunset was especially beautiful that day—the clouds glowing gold like they were dipped in honey. But no one seemed to notice.

Ayan lifted his jar toward the sky, and one of the old fishermen laughed bitterly. “What’s the point, boy? The world is changing. Sunsets won’t help us.”

Ayan didn’t reply. He just looked at his jar, then at the people, then at the glowing horizon.

He took a deep breath and walked toward them.
“You can have this one,” he said softly.

The old fisherman frowned. “Why give it to me?”

“Because sometimes we forget that beautiful things still happen. Maybe this will help you remember.”

The old man hesitated, then opened the jar.

Nothing happened—yet something changed. The old fisherman’s face softened. His shoulders relaxed. His eyes brightened just a little, as if the colors of the sunset had settled into his heart.

The other townspeople stared. Then one by one, they asked Ayan for a jar.

In the weeks that followed, the townspeople felt hopeful again. They began rebuilding the broken harbor. They helped each other repair houses, plant small gardens, and clean the beach. Ayan’s father found work helping fishermen restore their boats.

The town slowly came back to life.

On a cool spring evening, Ayan stood on top of the hill with his last empty jar. The sky was glowing in shades of gold and soft purple. He smiled, lifted the jar, and whispered:

“This one… is for me.”

He clicked the lid shut—catching not the sunset itself, but the memory of a world where hope can return from even the smallest glass jar.

And sometimes, that is enough.