No one ever found the shop.
They simply wandered in.
Some were looking for coffee. Some, for shelter from the rain. Some didn’t know what they were looking for until they heard the bell above the door.
Ding.
Inside, the shop was… odd. Cozy, yes, but not ordinary. No shelves. No price tags. Just a velvet chair, a grandfather clock that didn’t tick, and a long glass counter beneath a sign that read
“Time, Slightly Used. Inquire Within.”
Behind the counter stood a person known only as The Keeper—neither old nor young, neither man nor woman. They wore spectacles, a velvet waistcoat, and a look that said they’d waited lifetimes for you to arrive.
Each customer was offered one thing: a pocket of time.
“Fifteen minutes,” the Keeper told Mr. Doyle, whose voice cracked when he said he wished he’d hugged his sister goodbye.
“One hour,” they told Miss Lila, who wanted to taste one more breakfast with her grandmother.
“Two minutes,” for a man who’d once bitten his tongue when it most needed to speak.
The time came in small crystal vials—cool to the touch, shimmering faintly.
The price? A memory.
Not just any memory. A treasured one. Something the customer wouldn’t remember afterward.
Some said no. Many said yes.
They drank. They vanished for a moment. And when they returned, they always cried.
Not always from sadness. Sometimes joy. Sometimes peace. But always tears.
One day, a boy named Tavi wandered in.
He was maybe ten. Maybe twelve. Timeless, really.
He stared at the counter and said, “I want to go back five minutes.”
The Keeper smiled gently. “That’s quite modest.”
“I said something I didn’t mean. To my mum. She looked… small.”
The Keeper nodded. “You can have the five minutes.”
“What do I have to give you?”
The Keeper tilted their head. “You’d give me your memory of the first time she sang to you.”
Tavi thought. And thought.
And then—he shook his head. “No.”
The Keeper didn’t look disappointed. Only curious. “Why not?”
“Because… I don’t want to fix it if I have to lose that. I’ll just say sorry now. While I still remember.”
The shop went very quiet. Even the clock held its breath.
Then the Keeper did something no one had ever seen.
They reached beneath the counter and gave Tavi a vial—cool, shimmering, and empty.
“No charge,” they said softly.
Tavi left, and the shop felt a little warmer.
Some say the shop still exists, somewhere between the tick and the tock. It doesn’t promise second chances. Only borrowed ones.
But sometimes, when you’re wishing for more time, you might hear a bell…
Ding.
And if you’re very lucky, you’ll remember that time isn’t something to hoard, or fix, or buy back.
It’s something to honor, while it’s still yours.
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