“The Child Who Never Grew Old”

In the quiet village of Elmsworth, nestled between thick forests and sleepy hills, time moved slowly — but steadily. Children grew, trees shed their leaves, and wrinkles deepened with each passing year.

Except for one child.

His name was Eli.

For as long as anyone could remember, Eli had lived in the village. He looked no older than seven — small, curious eyes, a mop of chestnut curls, and a wide smile that never seemed to fade. Some claimed he was the child of a reclusive traveler. Others whispered he’d been abandoned by faeries. But no one could deny the truth: Eli had never aged. Not a day.

Mrs. Callahan, the oldest resident in Elmsworth, once showed her black-and-white photo from 50 years ago — and there, in the corner, stood Eli, holding a balloon, looking exactly the same.

“It's a trick,” people said. “Maybe a grandson who looks just like him.”

But when pressed, no family came forward. And Eli… well, Eli just kept playing with the other children. Every generation knew him. He played hopscotch in the ‘80s, video games in the 2000s, and VR by 2040. His playmates changed, grew up, moved on. He remained.

It was the town’s unspoken rule not to question him. Until one day, a journalist named Clara came to Elmsworth. She was chasing a story about “the boy who defied time.” She came with cameras, notebooks, and a skeptic's heart.

When Clara met Eli, he greeted her kindly.

“Are you here to ask how old I am?” he said with a grin.

She chuckled. “That obvious?”

He nodded. “Everyone wants to know. Even me.”

Clara spent weeks in the village. She spoke to elders, combed records, and followed Eli discreetly. He never left the village borders. He never got sick. He never changed.

Then one evening, Clara found a strange journal buried behind the village library. It was wrapped in worn leather, sealed with a wax mark — a circle with an eye in its center.

Inside, the entries began:

“Year 1: I chose the village because it was quiet. I wanted peace. They think I’m a child. I let them. It’s easier this way.”

“Year 64: The experiments worked. My body remains still. But my mind… it’s tired.”

“Year 105: I’ve seen generations rise and fall. They live so quickly. I envy their endings.”

Clara’s hands trembled. This wasn’t a child.

The next entry read:

“Year 172: If you’ve found this, then I am still here. Or worse… I am not.”

She confronted Eli the next day. His smile was smaller now. Quieter.

“I wrote that journal,” he said, looking up at her with eyes too wise for his face.

“You’re not seven,” Clara whispered.

“I was,” he nodded. “Once. A long time ago. I was a scientist… or a magician, depending on who you ask. I discovered something. A way to pause aging. I tested it on myself.”

“Why?”

“At first, curiosity. Then fear. And now…” He looked toward the horizon. “Regret.”

Clara sat beside him on the bench.

“Why stay here?”

“Because this place remembers. And because maybe… I hope someone will figure out how to help me stop being what I’ve become.”

“Have you ever tried ending it?” she asked gently.

“I’ve tried everything,” he said. “But the body doesn’t break. Time doesn’t move for me. I’m… stuck.”

The story went viral. Scientists, priests, journalists — they all came. But no one could explain Eli. Nothing changed him. Not medicine. Not rituals. Not even time.

Eventually, the world moved on. But Clara didn’t.

She stayed in Elmsworth. She aged. She married. She wrote books. She raised children — who all played with Eli.

And one day, when Clara was old and frail, she whispered to him, “You gave me the greatest story. But I’m sorry you’re still writing yours.”

Eli smiled. This time, with sadness.

When Clara passed, Eli stood by her grave alone.

A tear ran down his cheek — not of sorrow, but of longing.