"The Man Who Sold Sunsets"

They said he was just an old man with a strange smile and a box full of light, but to me, he was magic. I first saw him by the boardwalk, just as the sun was dipping below the ocean, painting the sky in soft orange and pink. People were walking by with their ice creams and phones, not noticing him, but I stopped because I saw something strange—he was holding a small glass jar, and inside it glowed with the exact colors of that sunset. I thought it was just a trick, maybe a toy with lights, but then he looked at me and said, “Would you like to keep tonight’s sunset?”

I laughed, thinking he was joking, but something about his eyes made me curious. “How?” I asked. He held out the jar, and I saw that the light inside it was moving, swirling like clouds in a slow dance. “For a memory,” he said softly, “just one. I’ll take one you don’t mind losing.” I stared at him, not sure if I was dreaming or if this was some strange art performance, but the jar was so warm in my hands when he let me hold it. I didn’t feel scared. I felt... calm. Like I had been searching for something without knowing it, and maybe this was it.

“What kind of memory?” I asked. He smiled, a little sad, a little kind. “Something small. A forgotten birthday. A rainy day you spent alone. An afternoon you never think about. I don’t take the big ones. Just the ones floating at the back of your mind, fading anyway.” I was quiet. Then I nodded. He touched the jar, whispered something I didn’t hear, and I felt a gentle tug inside my chest, like a thread loosening. Then it was over. He handed me the jar. “Tonight’s sunset is yours,” he said, and walked away into the shadows.

That night, I stared at the jar until I fell asleep, the colors inside softly glowing like dreams I never had. I started going back every evening. Sometimes he was there, sometimes not. Each time, a new jar. A new sunset. A different memory I couldn’t quite place suddenly gone. It didn’t feel like I was losing anything important—at least not at first.

The jars lined my window like tiny glowing planets. My friends asked about them, and I just said they were “just lights.” I couldn’t explain it, not without sounding insane. But I felt lighter every time. Like I could breathe better. Laugh more. Sleep deeper.

Until one day, I noticed something strange—I couldn’t remember my mother’s laugh. I tried and tried, but all I saw in my head was silence. I ran to the jars and picked up the one from last week. The sunset in it was red, like fire, like warmth, like home. And I knew. I had traded something too big.

I went back to the boardwalk, heart pounding, and waited. He came, just like always, holding a new jar. But this time, I didn’t smile. I said, “I want my memory back.” He looked at me, eyes older than the sea, and shook his head. “I can’t give it back,” he said. “The sunset keeps it. The moment is gone.” I shouted, tears burning my face, but he only said, “I warned you. I only take what you offer.”

I realized I had offered too much, too easily. I wanted the beauty, the peace, the magic—but I forgot the price. I kept the jars, but I stopped trading. Now I watch the sunsets with my own eyes, burning them into my memory with every color. I try to remember everything. The laughter. The pain. The rainy days. The quiet afternoons.

I guard my moments like treasure now, because I know how easily they can disappear. But sometimes, when the light hits just right, I still see him in the distance, offering jars to someone new, smiling gently, waiting for their memory. The man who sold sunsets is still out there, somewhere, trading beauty for pieces of the past.

And sometimes I wonder—how many memories does he carry? How many sunsets has he sold? And how many people like me learned too late that the most beautiful things often cost more than we expect?