“The Man Who Collected Sunsets”

By Murad Ali Shah

Every evening at six, he stood by the hill that overlooked the city. In his hand was a small glass jar, and in his eyes, a quiet kind of longing. To anyone passing by, he looked like an ordinary man — perhaps a dreamer, perhaps a fool — holding up an empty jar toward the fading sky.

But to him, it wasn’t empty. Each day, he believed he captured a little piece of light before it disappeared — a sunset for safekeeping.

The children in the neighborhood called him “the man who collected sunsets.” They’d giggle and whisper behind him as he stood in silence, the jar glinting in the last light of day. But he never seemed to mind. He’d smile faintly, as if he knew something the world had forgotten.

When someone once asked him why he did it, he replied softly, “Because most people watch the sunset just to say goodbye to another day. But I watch it to remember that even endings can be beautiful.” No one really understood him, but no one could forget him either.

He wasn’t always like that. Years ago, he was a man like any other — a worker, a husband, a father. His days were filled with deadlines, alarms, and the endless hum of responsibilities. He lived by the clock but felt time slipping through him like water.

Then one evening, he came home to an empty chair and a note that said, “I can’t do this anymore.” His wife had left. The house, once full of laughter and small arguments and music in the kitchen, became painfully silent. Even the clock on the wall seemed to tick louder, as if mocking him.

For months, he did nothing but survive — work, eat, sleep, repeat. Until one day, while walking home from work, he saw the sun melting into the horizon. It was ordinary, yet something in that moment cracked the wall he had built around his heart. The sky was on fire — orange, gold, violet — and it reminded him of her laughter, of all that was once warm.

He stood there until the light vanished, and when it did, he whispered, “Thank you.” That night, he found a small jar in the kitchen and decided to “keep” the sunset — not literally, but symbolically. It became his quiet ritual. Every evening, he’d go to the same hill, lift the jar toward the sky, and imagine collecting the beauty of endings — the light that fades but never truly dies.

With time, he started feeling alive again. He began to notice small things — the way the wind carried laughter from a nearby park, the smell of rain on dust, the quiet strength in people’s eyes as they faced their own storms.

He realized life wasn’t about holding on — it was about learning to let go gracefully. Years passed, and people began to stop by the hill just to see him — the man with the jars. Some brought their own. He never charged them, never spoke much. He only said, “Whatever you’ve lost, pour it into the sunset. It knows how to carry pain away.”

And they did. Lovers, widows, strangers — all came, stood in silence, and let the colors wash over their hearts.

One evening, as the light was turning golden, he felt weak. His hand trembled, but he still lifted his jar toward the horizon. Someone nearby asked if he was okay. He smiled. “I’m fine. I just have one more sunset to keep.”

When the sun dipped and the last light faded, he closed his eyes — and this time, he didn’t open them again. The next day, people found his jar resting on the grass, facing west. Inside it was a small folded note:

“Every sunset I’ve collected is a promise — that darkness is never the end. If you ever forget how to start again, just look toward the light.”