The Man Who Sold Time

Everyone in the city said it was a myth. A whisper. A foolish rumor carried by the wind through cracked alleyways and flickering neon signs.

But Jasper knew better.

He had seen the booth.

It stood tucked between an abandoned bookstore and a boarded-up pharmacy, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow. A crooked sign above the booth, written in flaking gold paint, read:

“TIME FOR SALE – PAYMENT IN MEMORIES ONLY”

The first time Jasper passed it, he thought it was some kind of performance art. The man inside wore a velvet waistcoat, a clock-shaped monocle over one eye, and a silver chain that disappeared into his coat pocket. He had the look of someone who didn’t belong to this century.

Jasper kept walking.

But three days later, when his deadline approached and his fingers ached from typing useless words that never made sense, he came back.

He needed more time.

The man greeted him with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “First visit’s free,” he said, motioning for Jasper to sit.

“What is this?” Jasper asked, still half expecting a hidden camera to pop out.

The man reached into a drawer and pulled out a small glass vial. Inside was a swirling, golden mist. It pulsed like a heartbeat.

“One hour,” he said. “Enough to finish what’s keeping you up at night.”

Jasper laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Take it,” the man said, pressing it into his hand. “Come back tomorrow. We’ll talk payment then.”

Against his better judgment, Jasper took it home.

That night, he opened the vial—and time… changed.

The clock froze.

The city outside his window stopped.

No cars. No footsteps. No heartbeat but his own.

For one perfect hour, he wrote. Every idea, every word he needed poured out of him like he was possessed by some ancient muse. He finished the article. Finished the novel he’d left half-done for years. He felt invincible.

When time resumed, the clock ticked forward like nothing had happened.

The next day, he returned.

The man waited, smiling like a spider.

“Payment,” he said, “is a memory. Your choice.”

Jasper hesitated.

“What if I give you something small?” he asked. “Like… the time I lost my first tooth?”

The man leaned back. “A dull trade. But fair for one hour.”

He held out a device shaped like a miniature gramophone, pressed it to Jasper’s temple, and pulled.

It didn’t hurt. But something was gone.

That night, Jasper tried to remember how it felt, that first loss, the blood and the coin under the pillow. But there was only blankness.

Still, he returned again. And again.

Hours for memories.

He gave away the fight with his father on his sixteenth birthday. The smell of his mother’s kitchen. The sound of his first love's laugh.

Every trade bought him another hour.

Soon, Jasper became a legend in the city—an unstoppable writer, a creative genius. His books topped charts. His face lit up screens. Everyone wanted a piece of him.

But Jasper didn’t smile anymore. Didn’t feel anymore.

Because the memories were gone.

And with them, the meaning.

He went back to the alleyway one last time, desperate. Rain dripped from the awning as the man in the booth lit a pipe and watched him approach.

“I want them back,” Jasper said.

The man shook his head. “Time moves one way.”

Jasper leaned in, hands shaking. “Please. I’ll pay anything.”

The man’s smile vanished. “There is one way,” he said quietly. “But it’s costly.”

Jasper didn’t hesitate. “I’ll do it.”

The man opened a drawer and pulled out a black vial.

“This will give you back every memory you sold… but you will lose all time that came after. You’ll forget the success, the fame, the books. Your mind will return to the moment before your first visit here.”

Jasper stared at it.

Then he took it.

He drank.

And the world shifted.

Jasper woke in his old apartment, surrounded by drafts and debt. The neon outside blinked softly. His laptop screen glowed.

The booth was gone.

But the memory of his mother’s kitchen returned, warm and fragrant.

He wept.

Then, slowly, he began to write again—not for success, not for fame—but for himself.