The Man Who Borrowed Time

Kavindu was always late. No matter how hard he tried, time slipped through his fingers like sand. But everything changed the night he met the old watchmaker.

The shop was tucked between two towering buildings, barely noticeable. Inside, clocks of all kinds ticked in perfect harmony. An old man, with glasses and a knowing smile, greeted Kavindu.

“You seem like a man who could use more time,” the watchmaker said, handing him an antique pocket watch. “This doesn’t tell time. It gives it.”

Skeptical but intrigued, Kavindu took the watch. The moment he pressed its crown, time around him slowed. People moved like they were wading through syrup, while he remained untouched. He could pause moments, redo conversations, and never be late again.

For weeks, and months life was perfect. Until he noticed the cost. Every time he borrowed time, he lost something. At first, it was small, a memory of a childhood toy, the taste of his favorite meal. But then, entire days disappeared.

A friend greeted him like a stranger. His mother called, crying, asking why he hadn’t visited in years. Years he didn’t remember passing.

Panicked, Kavindu rushed back to the shop, but the door was gone. In its place was a blank wall, as if the shop had never existed. His pocket watch now ticked faster, the hands spinning wildly.

Memories bled from his mind. His mother’s voice, the way she smiled when she told childhood stories, the warmth of her hand in his. Faces blurred. Moments faded. He clutched his head, gasping, fighting to hold onto something, anything.

Then, as if the universe took pity on him, the watch stilled.

A single name echoed in his mind. Mom.

His heart pounded. Kavindu turned and ran, not away from time, but toward it.

He reached her doorstep, breathless, hands shaking as he knocked. When she opened the door, she looked older than he remembered. Tears welled in her eyes, but before she could speak, he wrapped her in a hug.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I won’t waste another second.”

The pocket watch in his hand cracked, then crumbled to dust. Time had returned to its rightful pace. No more shortcuts. No more borrowed moments. Just the ones that truly mattered.

And for the first time in his life, Kavindu wasn’t late.

Story by Matheesha Prathapa

("You can buy anything, but you can't buy time. So, don't waste it.")