The Years We Lent the Sky

Nomi’s first memory was signing the Tithe Contract.

“Just five years, sweet beetle,” Mama whispered, guiding her hand on the tablet. “For Grandma’s next sleep-cycle.”

On screen, NOMI RAO (AGE 7) donated 1,825 days to CRYOGEN CORP. In return: medicine for Mama’s cough, and Grandma waking up "youthful" at 190.

Nomi didn’t understand time. But she understood Mama’s tears when the medicine arrived.

Five years later, Nomi’s Tithe Day arrived.

She stood in CryoCorp’s gleaming Transfer Hub as technicians attached neural wires to her temples. Across the room, her Receiver waited in his pod – SILAS THORNE (AGE 247), his face a roadmap of wrinkles under the frosty glass.

“Donor 8892, ready?” the tech droned.

Nomi clutched her beetle pendant. “Will it hurt?”

“Like missing a dream.”

The machine hummed. Cold spread through her bones.

On the monitor, her bio-age flickered:

12 → 13 → 14 → 15 → 16 → 17

Silas’ monitor responded: 247 → 246 → 245 → 244 → 243

When it ended, Nomi stumbled. Her body felt stretched thin. Silas stepped out – straight-backed, dark-haired, eyes haunted.

“Thank you for your service,” he said stiffly, avoiding her gaze.

Nomi noticed the glitch at school.

While classmates giggled over hologame filters, her hands sketched equations she’d never learned. She dreamed in languages dead for centuries.

“Residual neural data from your Receiver,” CryoCorp Support said. “Will fade in 48 hours.”

But the dreams intensified. She saw Silas pacing a gold-plated cryo-pod, whispering: “Another decade wasted…”

Then came the vision of The Auction:

“Lot 17: Five pristine years from Donor 8892!” a hologavel cried to wealthy bidders. “Unspent on labor or grief! Ideal for luxury virtual parties or–”

Nomi woke screaming. Her years. Sold like candy.

She tracked Silas to a decaying library – one of the last "analog zones."

“You’re stalking me, child,” he sighed, not looking up from a paper book.

“You knew!” Nomi slammed her donor certificate on his table. “CryoCorp resold my Tithe!”

Silas flinched. “Of course they did. My ‘youth boost’ lasted a week. Then they demanded more credits to maintain it.” He showed his account screen:

DEBT: 302 YEARS

“But the Auction–”

“The Elite buy ‘pure’ years for parties,” he spat. “While we age double-time paying debts.”

Nomi’s beetle pendant felt heavy. Mama thought Tithes helped Grandma. But Grandma was still asleep, her account charging interest…

“Help me steal my years back,” Nomi said.

Silas laughed bitterly. “I’m the villain who took them.”

“No,” she pointed to his book – The Little Prince. “You miss mangoes. And real rain. That’s why you come here.”

His eyes finally met hers. Ancient. Tired. “The Auction’s tonight.”

CryoCorp’s Vault Level was colder than space.

Nomi crawled through ventilation shafts (smaller bones = donor advantage) while Silas used stolen codes.

“Guard drones ahead,” Silas warned via earpiece. “Distract them.”

Nomi activated her neural link to CryoCorp’s system – a backdoor from her residual connection. She flooded the drones with Silas’ memory: First love. Lost war. The taste of mangoes.

The drones froze, processors overwhelmed by human emotion.

“Beautiful chaos,” Silas whispered.

They reached the Time Vault: thousands of glowing orbs containing years. Nomi’s glowed beetle-green.

“Alert: Breach detected,” blared alarms. “Deploying Chrono-Guards.”

Silas shoved her toward the orb. “Take it and run!”

“But your debt–”

“I’m tired, Nomi.” He smiled – truly smiled. “Let me finally rest.”

The Chrono-Guards stormed in, aging-rifles aimed. One shot grazed Silas. He aged decades in seconds, hair whitening, skin papering over bone.

Nomi grabbed her orb. It hummed with warmth… and memories:

Mama braiding her hair

Racing paper boats in rain gutters

Being seven

The guards aimed at her.

“Don’t!” croaked Silas. “That’s President Vance’s personal years!”

The guards hesitated. Nomi saw her chance.

She smashed the orb.

Green light exploded. Time rewound like a snapped tape.

Nomi’s body shrank to her 12-year-old self. Guards de-aged into teenagers, dropping rifles in confusion. Silas’ wrinkles softened, settling at 200 instead of 247.

Her stolen years settled into her bones. Her laugh. Her heartbeat.

But she’d absorbed Silas’ residual memories too. She understood his weariness. His guilt.

“Why?” he rasped, younger but still ancient. “You could’ve reset to childhood.”

Nomi touched his lined face. “You deserved mangoes again.”

On the news, CryoCorp collapsed. The Auction footage leaked.

Nomi’s family watches as protestors swarm CryoCorp towers:

“OUR YEARS, OUR CHOICE!”

“BREAK THE SLEEP CYCLE!”

Grandma finally woke – frail but free of debt. “Time shouldn’t be stolen,” she whispered, holding Nomi’s now-smaller hand.

Silas brings mangoes to their tiny apartment. His debt erased when Nomi shared the years. He eats slowly, juice dripping down his chin, eyes closed.

“Like the sun,” he murmurs.

Nomi teaches him paper-boat racing. He laughs when his sinks – a rusty sound, like an engine starting after centuries.

Some bargains can’t be repaid in years.

Only in shared rain.

Shared mangoes.

Shared tomorrows.