“The Man Who Borrowed Time”

No one noticed the man in the café until he pulled out the hourglass.

It was small, elegant—no larger than a teacup—and the sand inside shimmered with something that didn’t look like sand at all. More like stardust. He placed it gently on the table beside his untouched coffee and turned it upside down.

The moment the sand began to fall, everything in the café froze.

Forks hung mid-air. Steam curled from cups like suspended sculptures. Conversations stopped mid-syllable. Even the old wall clock behind the barista halted with a subtle tick... and no tock.

Except for the man.

And me.

I was on my lunch break, still holding a half-eaten sandwich. I blinked. Once. Twice. The world didn’t unfreeze.

He looked up and smiled at me, eyes the color of winter lakes—cold, deep, and impossibly ancient.

“You can see me,” he said.

“I... guess?” I replied, which sounded absurd even to myself.

He gestured to the chair opposite him. “That means you’ve run out of time.”

My heart gave a twitch. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer. Not yet. Instead, he studied the falling sand with unsettling calm.

“You have seventeen minutes,” he said at last. “Borrowed. That’s how long it’ll take for the sand to fall. Then everything goes back.”

“Back to...?”

He gave a small, almost pitiful smile. “Back to the moment before the car hit you.”

I froze. Not like the café—more like the kind where your stomach drops and your soul tries to crawl backward.

“I died?”

“You will,” he said. “Unless you make a trade.”

The man introduced himself as Kairon—a "Custodian of Time." He didn’t wear robes or wield a scythe. Just a gray coat and the scent of old clocks.

“Everyone gets one chance,” he said, “to borrow time. But to keep it, you must give something of equal value.”

I swallowed. “Like what?”

He sipped his coffee. “A memory. A name. A face. Something that defines you. The greater the thing, the more time you keep.”

“What if I give you a bad memory? Like the time I broke my arm?”

He chuckled. “Pain shapes you. Bad memories often cost more.”

I thought about it. What would I give up to avoid dying? A song? A regret? A person?

Kairon seemed to read my mind. “You have two minutes left to decide.”

I dug deep into my mind. My father’s laugh. My mother’s lullaby. My first kiss. The day my dog died. The day I got the job. The moment I first held my baby brother.

All of it felt vital. None of it felt expendable.

“What if I give you the memory of her?” I said softly, surprising even myself. “The girl I loved and lost.”

Kairon raised an eyebrow. “Was she important?”

“She was everything. And that’s why I can’t keep carrying her.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Then nodded.

“The trade is fair,” he said, and turned the hourglass once more.

I woke up on the sidewalk, blinking against flashing lights. A paramedic hovered over me, shining a flashlight into my eyes.

“You're lucky,” she said. “The car missed your head by inches.”

I nodded slowly, my heart hammering—not from fear, but from an eerie emptiness I couldn't place.

Back at work, I opened my phone, scrolling without purpose. Photos. Messages. A thousand digital footprints. But one thread seemed incomplete. I had a vague sense of someone, like trying to remember the lyrics to a song I never quite knew.

My coworker leaned over and asked, “Whatever happened to that girl you were seeing? The one with the painting studio?”

I stared at him. “What girl?”

He looked confused. “Never mind.”

Weeks passed. My life continued. But there was a strange lightness in me. A quiet corner where pain used to sit. No more dreams of her face. No more aching songs on the radio. Just... peace.

And one day, I passed a small antique store tucked between two buildings I swear had never been there before.

In the dusty window was a display of old hourglasses.

One of them shimmered faintly.

Like stardust.

Ending line:

You can borrow time, yes. But you must always return something in its place.