The Man Who Traded Time

By Faisal Zaman. 

It was a quiet Wednesday when Elias discovered the watch. Not just any watch—it had no numbers, ticking, or reflection in mirrors. He found it buried beneath the floorboards in the attic of his late grandfather’s countryside cottage. The air was thick with dust, and the floor creaked under every step. But the moment Elias pulled that strange object out of its waxed wrapping, he knew it wasn’t just an antique. The watch was warm. As though it had been waiting.

Elias was a simple man. A data entry clerk, thirty-four years old, unmarried, a creature of routine. He lived in a small apartment on the edge of the city. Each morning he rose at six, caught the 6:42 train, and by 7:30, he was seated at his desk in a gray-walled office. Life was predictable, safe, and entirely uneventful.

The cottage had been left to him in his grandfather’s will. Elias hadn’t visited it since he was a child. He only returned now to clean it up and consider selling it. But as the day passed and the sun dipped behind the pine trees, he became absorbed in its stillness—the way the walls whispered old stories and the wind carried hints of forgotten memories.

That night, in the small bedroom upstairs, Elias examined the watch again. It was brass, aged yet unmarred, with a leather strap that fit perfectly. The face was blank, smooth, with no hands or glass cover. On the back, an inscription read: “To give is to receive.”

He slipped it onto his wrist. Nothing happened.

Or so he thought.

The next day, as Elias sorted old books in the attic, he accidentally knocked over a box. Papers spilled across the wooden floor. Among them, a yellowed photograph caught his eye. It was of a man who looked exactly like Elias—identical in every way—standing by the same window he now sat beneath. But the photo was dated 1924.

He stared at it for a long time, unnerved.

When he returned to the city a few days later, something strange began to happen. Time shifted.

Not all at once, and not in any obvious way. But slowly, subtly, pieces of his life began rearranging. Meetings he had forgotten were suddenly remembered. Emails he hadn’t sent had replies. Deadlines he missed were marked as completed. His coworkers praised his punctuality. His manager thanked him for his diligence.

He didn’t recall doing any of it.

And yet—somehow—he had.

More anomalies appeared. He would reach the subway platform and find the train already waiting. He'd glance at the clock and find time had moved faster—or slower—than he felt it should. One day, he bumped into a woman on the street. She smiled and greeted him like an old friend. “You don’t remember our coffee?” she asked, slightly hurt.

He didn’t.

That night, Elias sat on the floor of his apartment and stared at the watch. It pulsed softly against his wrist. He realized he no longer heard it tick. He wasn’t even sure it ever had.

Then he made his first conscious wish.

He closed his eyes and whispered, "I wish I could fix the argument with my brother."

The next morning, his phone buzzed. A message from his brother: "Hey. I’ve been thinking. I’m sorry. Can we talk?"

Elias felt both joy and fear. He had not spoken to his brother in years.

He began testing the watch.

Small changes at first. A missed bus that arrived anyway. A lost wallet was returned with everything intact. A forgotten lunch was suddenly packed and waiting. Each time, the price was unclear. He would lose something—a memory, a detail, an hour of his night.

But he kept trading.

It became intoxicating.

People noticed. His performance soared at work. He never stumbled, never hesitated. His answers were always right. His instincts became perfect. Promotions followed. Invitations poured in. Friends reconnected.

And yet, Elias grew distant. He felt like an actor in a play he hadn't rehearsed. He began forgetting faces. The names of classmates. The last time he laughed uncontrollably.

He stood in front of a mirror one evening and realized he no longer saw his reflection. The watch hovered on his wrist, glowing faintly.

He panicked.

Desperate, Elias returned to the cottage. The silence greeted him like an old friend. He searched through the attic, looking for something—anything—that could explain. In an old trunk, hidden beneath moth-eaten clothes, he found a journal. It wasn’t his grandfather’s. The handwriting was unfamiliar.

“Each use costs you. Not time—but identity. The more you take, the less you are. You cannot have perfection without sacrifice.”

Page after page, the entries detailed stories of others who used the watch. Some lost their memories. Some faded from photographs. Some became echoes of themselves—still walking, still breathing, but hollow.

Elias tried to remove the watch. It wouldn’t budge.

He screamed into the wind.

He stopped using it. For days, he resisted the urge. Life returned to normal—slower, clumsier. But real. He forgot birthdays, spilled coffee, and missed appointments. And yet, the world felt warmer.

Then his boss threatened to fire him. His rent was due. His brother fell ill.

The temptation returned.

He made one final trade.

He wished for time—for his brother’s recovery.

The next morning, the hospital called. His brother had stabilized. Miraculously.

But Elias forgot his mother’s face.

He tried drawing it, but the image vanished from the page.

That night, the watch’s glow dimmed. He understood what was coming.

He walked into the woods behind the cottage, deep into the trees, where no path remained. He removed the watch and placed it in a hollow of an old oak tree.

For the first time in weeks, he felt cold air on his skin.

And he cried.

He returned to the city a week later, unnoticed. The watch was gone, but he remained. Half-whole. Half-forgotten.

Years passed. Elias worked at a bookstore. He aged. He learned to love small things—the smell of paper, the sound of rain.

But sometimes, in quiet moments, he would see someone on the train—a stranger wearing a familiar watch. Blank-faced. Glowing faintly.

He would nod.

And walk on.