The Man Who Bought Tomorrow

It was a quiet morning in the small town of Greyvale when Elias Turner stepped into the old clock shop at the corner of Birch Street. The wooden sign above the door read:

“Tempus Emporium — Time Restored.”

The shop smelled of brass and dust. Hundreds of clocks lined the walls — ticking, whirring, whispering in a strange, uneven rhythm. It felt as if time itself lived there, breathing softly between the gears.

Elias wasn’t there to fix a clock. He was there to fix his life.

He had lost almost everything — his job, his apartment, and worst of all, his sister, who no longer spoke to him. He had missed her wedding because he’d been too busy chasing a promotion that never came. Regret clung to him like a shadow.

Behind the counter sat an old man with silver eyes and trembling hands. He was polishing a pocket watch so delicately it seemed sacred. When he looked up, his gaze was sharp, almost knowing.

“Can I help you, son?”

Elias hesitated. “I heard… rumors. That you sell something… different. Something that can give a man more time.”

The old man stopped polishing. The ticking in the shop grew louder.

“So,” he said softly, “you’ve come for that.”

He turned to a locked cabinet and brought out a small, strange watch — black glass face, golden rim, and hands that spun backward.

“This,” he said, “is a Chronos Key. It can borrow one full day from your future — twenty-four hours to use again. You can undo a mistake, rewrite a moment, relive anything you wish.”

Elias’s eyes widened. “That’s… that’s impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible,” the man said. “Only expensive. The price is your happiest memory. Once the deal is made, you’ll never remember it again.”

Elias thought of his sister’s laughter, of childhood mornings chasing kites together. Then he thought of how much he wanted one more chance.

“I’ll pay.”

The old man nodded solemnly. “Then, take the watch. When midnight strikes, your yesterday will return.”

Elias gripped the watch. The hands spun faster — and suddenly the world blurred.

He opened his eyes — and it was yesterday.

Sunlight poured through the curtains. His phone buzzed — his sister’s wedding day. He dressed quickly and drove like his life depended on it. This time, he made it.

When she saw him, she froze. Then tears filled her eyes.

“You came,” she whispered.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said, voice shaking.

They danced. They laughed. They forgave. For the first time in years, he felt light — as if time itself had forgiven him.

But as the night ended, the clock struck twelve. His vision blurred again. The air grew heavy, and the laughter around him faded.

When he woke, he was back in his apartment. The clocks ticked normally. But something was wrong. He couldn’t remember his sister’s face. Not her smile, not her voice — only an empty warmth that hurt to think about.

Panicked, he rushed back to the shop.

But the corner lot was empty — no clocks, no counter, no door. Only a vacant building covered in ivy.

Years passed. Elias aged quietly, haunted by something he couldn’t name. Some nights, he dreamed of ticking sounds that echoed like a heartbeat.

Then, on his seventy-sixth birthday, a letter arrived.

It was written in his own handwriting:

“Elias,

You once bought a day from tomorrow.

Now, tomorrow has come to collect.

— Tempus Emporium.”

The next morning, his apartment was empty.

Only the watch remained, still ticking — backward.

And on its back, engraved in faint silver letters, were the words:

“Time is not something we own. It only visits.”