The Man Who Sold Tomorrow

Gregor Vale had always believed time was not a river, but a marketplace.

In the back corner of an old European alley, behind fogged glass and a tarnished brass sign, stood his tiny workshop — Vale & Sons: Custom Clocks Since 1882.

There were no sons, and there hadn’t been for generations.

Just Gregor, his tools, and an uncanny gift.

He could predict moments before they happened — small things at first.

A customer entering before the bell rang.

A cup tipping before it spilled.

A streetlamp going out seconds before darkness swallowed his window.

But as he aged, the glimpses grew longer.

Sharper.

More painful.

Soon, he began to see futures — full futures — and learned how to manipulate them.

That was when business changed forever.

People came not to fix timepieces… but to fix time itself.

He became a quiet legend.

The rich paid him fortunes to delay tragedies.

The powerful begged to avoid embarrassing scandals.

The fearful purchased beautiful lies about futures that would never come true.

Gregor did what they asked — for a price.

He always warned them:

“A future delayed must be balanced. Time does not erase the debt — it merely lends.”

The customers nodded, pretending to understand.

None ever did.

One rainy evening, a young woman entered, dripping rainwater on the oak floor. She looked nothing like his usual clientele. No gleaming jewelry. No expensive perfume. Just tired eyes and trembling hands.

Gregor watched her quietly.

Her future flickered around her like smoke.

“You’ve been searching for me,” he said.

Her breath hitched. “I… I heard rumors.”

“What is your request?”

Her voice cracked.

“I want one more day.”

He waited.

“With him.”

There was no need to ask who.

He saw it in her memories:

a man in a hospital bed, monitors beeping in quiet horror, lungs failing.

Her love.

Her almost-forever.

Gregor’s chest tightened.

He remembered that ache.

“I warn you,” he began gently, “time borrowed always demands something in return.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“And I accept.”

He wished she didn’t.

Gregor led her back to his private workshop — a small chamber lined with clocks, each frozen at different hours, like memories suspended.

On a velvet cloth lay a single brass pocket watch. Its hands ticked in reverse, slow and unnatural.

He had forged it decades ago.

Since then, he had never used it without regret.

“You understand,” he asked one last time, “that what you receive will be perfect. And what comes after will not.”

Tears fell silently down her cheeks.

“One day,” she said again.

No bargaining.

No pleading.

Just raw grief.

Gregor cranked the pocket watch slowly. Each click echoed with impossible weight.

The walls trembled.

The air thickened.

Her breath caught — and suddenly she was gone, whisked into a bubble of suspended future-time, granted twenty-four stolen hours of joy, warmth, laughter, and love.

Gregor sank into his chair, exhausted.

He hated this part.

Time always collected afterward.

When dawn came, she returned.

Her expression broke him.

She had lived every second. Every heartbeat. Every kiss.

And she understood now.

Time does not grant miracles.

Only trades.

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice hollowed by beauty and loss simultaneously.

He nodded, unable to meet her eyes.

“Your payment,” he said softly, “was already collected.”

She blinked.

Then slowly grew pale.

“What does that mean?”

Gregor looked up — regret carved across his face.

“His final day… would have been peaceful. Painless. Gentle.”

She froze.

“He was meant to pass quietly.”

The truth hit her like thunder.

“But you asked for more.”

She staggered, choking on realization.

“And time must balance the difference.”

Her knees gave way.

Gregor caught her, held her like a dying bird.

She stared at him, horror blooming across her soul.

“How… how will he die now?”

Gregor’s voice splintered.

“In terror,” he whispered.

“And awake.”

She sobbed until her body shook.

Until grief swallowed sound.

Until acceptance hollowed her eyes.

She left broken, but not angry.

Time was never cruel.

Only fair.

Gregor closed his shop early that night.

Lit a candle.

Sat beside the clocks.

He had given her joy and taken peace.

He wondered — as he always did — if the trade was worth it.

For her.

For him.

For time itself.

He did not know.

He never would.

He stared at the ticking clocks, feeling eternity in every second.

Tomorrow, someone else would walk through his door.

And he would trade again.

Because that was his burden.

The man who sold tomorrow.

And always paid the price.