The Man Who Sold Time

The city was unusually quiet that night, wrapped in a cold fog that seemed to muffle every sound. Streetlights flickered like they were unsure of their purpose, casting long, trembling shadows across the empty sidewalks. At exactly 11:47 p.m., the final bus of the evening screeched to a halt at the corner of Maple and 5th.

Clara stood waiting, a worn leather bag in one hand and her last few coins in the other. Life had unraveled faster than she could hold it together—first her job, then her apartment, and finally her hope. She didn’t know where the bus went. She only knew it was going away, and that was enough.

The driver, an older man with silver stubble and eyes like faded glass, gave her a gentle nod. Without a word, she dropped the coins into the fare slot and walked past rows of empty seats.

All empty—except one.

Halfway down sat a boy, no older than ten, in a faded red hoodie. In his hands, he held a glowing golden egg. Not toy-like or decorative. Real. Almost breathing.

Clara hesitated, then sat across from him. She offered a weak smile. “That’s a pretty cool egg.”

He didn’t look at her. “It’s not just an egg. It’s a memory.”

She tilted her head. “A memory?”

The boy finally met her gaze. His eyes were ancient—older than a child’s should be. “Your memory.”

Clara blinked, unsure whether to laugh or worry.

“What’s your name?” she asked gently.

“Eli,” he said. “You won’t remember me, but I’ve been waiting for you.”

The bus moved through streets that felt unfamiliar. The buildings grew stranger, more twisted. Then, trees appeared. Hills. Moonlight. None of it made sense.

“Driver?” Clara called. “Where are we going?”

The driver didn’t speak. He never looked away from the road.

“It goes where you need it to go,” Eli said.

Clara turned back, her voice shaky. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve forgotten who you are,” the boy replied. “This egg... will remind you.”

Before she could ask another question, the egg began to glow brighter. Gold light flooded the aisle. Clara shielded her eyes, but images rushed into her mind:

—A little girl with paint-splattered fingers, drawing constellations on her bedroom wall

—A teenage girl reading poetry to the wind

—A young woman standing on a rooftop, fearless and full of dreams

She gasped. These were her memories. Her forgotten self.

She looked back at Eli. “What are you?”

“A reminder,” he said softly. “That your story isn’t over. It’s only been paused.”

The bus came to a gentle stop. The doors opened with a quiet hiss.

Outside was no city. No place she knew. Just a field under stars that shimmered like they were waiting too. A path stretched ahead, lined with softly glowing lanterns.

Eli stood and handed her the cracked egg, now cool and empty. “This is your stop.”

Clara stepped off. She turned around, but the bus was already vanishing into the mist.

In front of her stood a wooden desk, old and sturdy. On it lay a leather-bound journal. Her name was on the cover.

She opened it.

Blank pages stared back—waiting to be filled.

She picked up the pen.

And began again.