PART ONE: THE RIVER AND THE JARS
The town of Iriem was small, the kind of place that felt like it had forgotten time. Houses leaned together as if for comfort, chimneys huffed soft clouds, and the river wound past the town in a slow, deliberate curve, carrying the quiet of the hills to the sea beyond.
No one really remembered when the old man appeared. One morning, he was simply there, sitting on a flat stone at the riverbank, a small glass jar at his side, his coat patched and soft with age. He didn't speak much. He didn't visit the market, and he never lingered where children played. Yet everyone in Iriem noticed him, because of what he did.
Every dawn, he came to the river. He sat in silence. And he collected tomorrows.
Not the ordinary tomorrows that everyone expected. These were delicate things, fragile as dewdrops, moments of hope that never quite had a chance to bloom. The old man could see them hovering like small, flickering lights just above the water, uncertain and tentative. Some were dim; some glowed bright, like sunlight trapped in a jar. He would reach for them carefully, his hands steady, and seal them inside glass with a soft pop that sounded like a secret whispered.
The townspeople whispered too. "He collects light," some said. "He gathers rain," said others. Children were braver: "He traps the stars." But none of them knew. None could know.
Only he knew that the tomorrows were not his to keep. They were gifts he borrowed for a moment, a fragile mercy before they disappeared forever. He lined them along shelves in his small house at the edge of town, rows upon rows of jars, each labeled in handwriting that curved like vines:
"The tomorrow of the baker who would forgive his brother."
"The tomorrow of a girl who intended to leave."
"The tomorrow of a man who almost said 'I love you.'"
He never opened them. He never looked inside. Some nights, he would sit by the fire, hands folded over his knees, listening to the soft hum of the jars, and wonder if the tomorrows whispered back.
It was a quiet life, measured in moments borrowed from others. And yet, it was lonely.
One morning, the light of dawn was softer than usual. Mist hovered over the river like a gentle sigh, curling around the stones. The old man reached for a particularly warm glow—a tomorrow he hadn't seen before. It shimmered like sunlight through honey. As he placed it into the jar, a tiny ripple ran through the water, and the jar trembled lightly in his hands.
He paused.
He had never felt this one before. It was heavier, more insistent. He shook his head, telling himself it was just his imagination. And yet, for the first time in years, a sense of anticipation filled him, like a song just starting but never quite reaching its first note.
As he walked back to his home, he noticed a child crouched at the edge of the trees. Barefoot. Hair tangled and damp from dew. Eyes wide. She didn't speak at first, only watched.
The old man kept walking. Children rarely followed. Most were too shy, too cautious. But she did not move.
Finally, she called out, her voice breaking the morning's quiet.
"Why do you do that?"
He stopped. The jar trembled slightly in his pocket. He had not been asked this before.
"I… I gather what would otherwise be lost," he said.
The child tilted her head. "Why?"
He hesitated. He had lived decades collecting these things without explaining. It was not pride that made him silent; it was understanding. Some truths were too fragile for words.
"Because some tomorrows deserve a chance," he finally said.
The child blinked. "Can you give them back?"
He shook his head, slowly. "No. Time is not ours to control. We can only watch, and sometimes, help them survive long enough to matter."
She nodded as though she understood, though he suspected she didn't. Most didn't. And yet, there was a spark in her eyes—curiosity, and perhaps something more: recognition.
The old man continued on, the jar warm in his hands. Behind him, the town of Iriem slept, unaware that its fate, its quiet, and its forgotten moments were being gathered, one tomorrow at a time, by the man who understood how to hold hope.
And somewhere along the way, he wondered—not for the first time, and not for the last—if perhaps one day, someone might follow him not just to watch, but to help.
PART TWO: THE CHILD WHO ASKED QUESTIONS
The child waited the next morning, standing at the riverbank where the mist rolled like slow smoke. Her small hands were wrapped around a worn basket, and her eyes followed the old man as he approached with the same quiet rhythm he had every day.
"You're here again," the old man said, not unkindly. His voice had the softness of wind through the reeds.
"I wanted to see," she said simply. "Why do you do it? Why do you take them?"
The old man knelt by the river and dipped the jar gently into the shallow water. A faint glow stirred inside, delicate and pulsing, as though it were breathing.
"Because they are lost," he said. "Some tomorrows never arrive. Some people forget to hope. Some moments are too fragile to survive on their own."
The child crouched beside him, silent. After a long pause, she asked, "But if they're lost… what's the point?"
The old man studied her small, earnest face. Few children had the patience to ask such things. Most ran when they saw the jars, or laughed at the strange old man who crouched over water like he was trying to trap the wind.
"Some things," he said slowly, "are worth holding, even if only for a little while. If no one remembers them, then they vanish. But if you remember, if you hold them… even for a moment… they matter."
She looked at him with wide, searching eyes. "Do you… remember them?"
The old man let out a soft sigh. "I try. But the jars are many. Some I can never open, never see. I just carry them. That is all I can do."
The girl picked up a pebble and tossed it into the river. It skipped once, twice, then sank. "Do they feel sad?" she asked.
The old man paused. "Sometimes. Some tomorrows are heavy, like a wish that never got its chance. Some are bright, because someone believed in them. And some… are lonely."
"Lonely?" she whispered.
"Yes," he said. "Like the ones that would have been wonderful, if only things had gone differently."
The child thought about this. Then, with the careful innocence only a child could have, she asked: "Have you ever… lost a tomorrow of your own?"
The old man stiffened. He did not answer immediately. Not because he didn't want to, but because he had spent so many years speaking only of other people's tomorrows, never his own.
Finally, he nodded once. "I have. Many."
She tilted her head. "And that's why you do this?"
"Yes," he admitted. "Because I cannot go back and live them. But I can make sure others' tomorrows are not lost."
For a long while, they sat together in silence. Mist curled around them like smoke from a distant fire. The child's small hands rested on her knees, and the old man's fingers lingered on the jar, feeling its faint warmth.
Then she asked the question that would linger in his mind for the rest of the day:
"Can you… give them back?"
He shook his head, slowly. "No. That is not how it works. But I can watch over them. I can protect them. Sometimes, that is enough."
The child thought about this quietly. Then she said something he had not expected: "Maybe one day… someone will help you carry them."
He looked at her. For the first time in years, he felt something stir inside him that was not just quiet resolve or loneliness. Hope.
Hope, he realized, could be contagious.
Over the next weeks, she returned every day, watching him collect the glowing lights, learning the rhythm of his movements. She began to understand the small, magical details: how the river responded to certain tomorrows, how the air shimmered with ones that were especially bright, and how some seemed heavier than others, tugging at him as though they were alive.
One day, as the sun rose and cast pink streaks across the water, the child finally asked the question he had been avoiding:
"What happens to you, when you do this every day?"
The old man looked down at the jar in his hand. The glow inside flickered, brightening for a moment, then dimming.
"I grow lighter," he said softly, "in some ways. But I grow heavier in others."
She frowned. "Heavier?"
"Yes," he admitted. "Carrying other people's tomorrows is not without cost. Sometimes I forget to feed myself. Sometimes I forget to sleep. And sometimes… sometimes I feel the weight of the ones that will never come."
The child's eyes widened. "That sounds… sad."
"It is," he said, "and yet it is also wonderful. Because for each tomorrow I carry, I am given a chance to preserve something beautiful, even if I never get to live it."
She stayed silent for a long while, then finally said, "Do you… wish you could?"
The old man's throat tightened. "Sometimes."
But he did not say more. He knew that some truths were too delicate to share fully.
The day ended, and the child went home, leaving him alone by the river. But for the first time, he realized that he was not truly alone. Someone watched, someone cared, someone understood in a way that no one else ever had.
THREE: THE WEIGHT OF THE PAST
The old man had not always collected tomorrows. Once, long ago, he had lived in the town of Iriem like any other person, unnoticed and unremarkable. He had known laughter that echoed through warm kitchens and the quiet of nights spent beside someone who understood the meaning of a shared silence. But those days were gone, scattered like leaves in a storm, leaving behind only shadows and what-ifs.
It had been a winter he never forgot, the first time a tomorrow slipped from his hands before he even noticed.
A small girl—his niece—had run into the snow, laughing, chasing the wind. He had been distracted, talking with a friend, and by the time he looked up, she was gone. Just gone. The world had seemed to hold its breath for a moment, then exhaled, leaving him with nothing but empty footprints and a scream that echoed in his chest for years.
From that moment, he had learned to notice the invisible threads. Every lost chance. Every missed word. Every moment that would never happen.
He had begun to collect them, one at a time, not for glory or recognition, but because he could not bear the thought of them disappearing entirely. He built shelves to hold them, labeled each jar carefully, and carried the weight of them like a second heartbeat.
Yet, even as he devoted himself to this task, he carried another burden: the tomorrows he had once hoped for himself. The lives he might have lived, the apologies he had never spoken, the journeys he had never taken. Those jars remained unopened.
They were his secret, and his sorrow.
The child had noticed the old man's pauses, the subtle tremble in his hands, the moments when his gaze lingered on certain jars longer than others. One afternoon, as the mist curled lazily over the river, she asked the question he had never expected anyone to ask:
"Which one is yours?"
He looked at her, startled. His lips parted, but no sound came.
"I mean… the tomorrow you wanted, but never had," she pressed. "Do you keep it too?"
He nodded slowly. "I do."
She crouched beside him, eyes wide. "Can you… show me?"
He shook his head. "No. Not yet."
But that night, in the quiet of his home, he could not resist. He took down the jar he had labeled in his own careful hand:
"My tomorrow."
The glass shimmered softly, warmer than any other. When he opened it, a light spilled across the room, filling every shadowed corner. He felt it rise through his chest, brushing away decades of regret and loss.
Inside, he saw what could have been: mornings where he had lingered at the breakfast table with his sister instead of leaving for work; evenings spent under the stars with people he had loved but never told; paths he had not taken, adventures abandoned before they even began. Each one shimmered briefly, fragile as the first frost on a windowpane, then slipped through his fingers like smoke.
Tears streamed down his face, and he realized that even collecting tomorrows could not fill the gaps of a life unlived.
When he awoke the next morning, the child was at the river, waiting as always.
"You're crying," she said softly.
"Yes," he admitted. "Sometimes, the ones we save are not enough. Sometimes, the weight is heavier than we can carry."
She placed her small hand over his. "Then let me help."
For the first time, he understood something rare and precious. Hope was not a burden to carry alone. It could be shared. It could grow when held together.
Over the following weeks, the child learned to recognize the tomorrows as he did: the heavy ones, the bright ones, the fragile ones. She learned that some could be returned to the river, allowed to dissolve naturally, while others required careful tending. She became his apprentice, his witness, and, in time, his companion.
The old man found himself smiling more, laughing quietly to himself. Even the small mistakes—the jars that spilled accidentally, the ones that glowed too brightly and frightened them—became part of their shared rhythm. Life, he realized, was not simply about collecting what is lost, but learning to treasure the moments
Yet, he knew the inevitable was coming. There would be a jar one day that could not be returned, a tomorrow that demanded he finally face what he had withheld from himself. And when that moment came, he would have to open it fully, and live the weight of his own choice
PART FOUR: OPENING HIS OWN TOMORROW
The river was quiet that morning, the mist thin and pale, the air filled with a gentle hum that seemed to echo from the jars themselves. The child waited as usual, her small figure pressed against the reeds, eyes wide with curiosity and care.
The old man held the jar closest to his chest, the one labeled in his own careful hand: "My tomorrow." It was heavier than any other, not with glass or light, but with memory and longing.
He knelt on the flat stone at the riverbank, his hands trembling. For decades, he had collected tomorrows that were not his own. He had watched lives begin and fade in fragile glass. He had borne the weight of hope and regret in equal measure. But now, it was time to face the one he had kept hidden.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he uncorked the jar.
Light spilled over the water, warm and golden, filling the mist and spilling into the reeds. The old man felt it rise through him like a tide, brushing away years of restraint. In the light, he saw the mornings he had skipped—the breakfasts he had eaten alone, the letters he had never written, the paths he had not walked. He saw conversations that had been silenced, laughter that had been swallowed by time, evenings spent wishing he had stayed instead of leaving.
Each memory shimmered, delicate and bright, like a butterfly trapped in sunlight. He reached out, his fingers brushing the golden threads, and felt the ache of decades: joy he had never held, love he had never claimed, chances he had never taken.
Tears streaked down his face as he realized something profound. The jars he had collected were not just about the lives of others. They had been a shield against facing his own losses. Each carefully labeled glass had allowed him to bear the weight of hope for everyone else, while keeping the emptiness of his own life safely locked away.
But now, the light demanded to be seen.
He sank to the stone, letting the warmth flow over him, letting the memories wash through him like a gentle river. For the first time in decades, he laughed softly, a sound trembling with both sorrow and wonder. He could feel the life he might have lived, each possibility vivid and alive, though fleeting.
The child watched quietly, sensing the gravity of the moment. She did not speak. She only stayed near, offering presence without words, as the old man surrendered to the beauty and the ache of his own missed tomorrows.
When the light finally dimmed, the jar was empty, its golden glow gone, leaving only the faint memory of warmth. The old man looked at the child, a small, grateful smile tugging at his lips.
"They are gone," he said softly. "All the ones I've kept for myself… all of them have been lived, if only in this moment."
The child nodded. "And now?"
He took a deep breath, feeling the weight in his chest lighten, though a quiet ache lingered. "Now… I carry no more secrets. I am free to live the tomorrows that remain."
From that day forward, he walked through the town differently. Every jar he touched seemed lighter, every tomorrow he collected seemed easier to bear. The child stayed by his side, learning, helping, and witnessing the quiet miracles of ordinary life.
He no longer collected tomorrows just to protect them. He collected them to honor them. To remember that even a single day could contain more magic than most lives could imagine.
And for the first time, he allowed himself to hope. Not for what might have been, but for what could still be.
PART FIVE: THE FUTURE HE WALKS INTO
The shelves were empty. The jars that had once glimmered like captured sunlight, carrying decades of hope and loss, were gone. Each one had returned to the world in its own quiet way—small miracles scattered across rooftops, rivers, gardens, and hearts.
The old man walked through the town of Iriem, the air warm with late morning sunlight. Children ran past him, laughing, their voices bright and untethered. Merchants called to one another, and smoke curled from chimneys in slow, lazy spirals. Everything seemed the same, and yet… everything was subtly different.
He paused at the edge of the river, the same flat stone where he had begun his work so many years ago. The water shimmered with reflected sunlight, carrying the memory of every tomorrow he had touched. He could feel them flowing now—alive in the world—tiny ripples of possibility in every laugh, every step, every sigh.
The child stood beside him, her small hand brushing his sleeve. "Will you… keep collecting?" she asked softly.
He shook his head. "Not in the same way. I will always notice, always cherish what could be. But I will no longer carry it alone."
She smiled, a quiet, knowing smile. "You're not alone anymore."
He nodded. For the first time, he realized that the jars had been a bridge—not just for the lost tomorrows of the town, but for himself. They had taught him patience, humility, and the delicate art of hope. They had shown him that even in quiet lives, small acts could ripple outward in ways no one could imagine.
Together, they walked along the riverbank, the sunlight pooling between their steps. The town stretched out before them, familiar and new at the same time. Somewhere, someone's laughter carried the echo of a tomorrow that had almost been lost. Somewhere else, a stranger's hand brushed against another in a moment that might never have happened.
The old man breathed deeply, feeling the rhythm of the present settle into him. He had spent decades holding the weight of hope and memory, but now he understood that life was not in the collecting—it was in the living.
As he walked, he felt something he had not felt in years: a lightness, a quiet joy that thrummed in his chest. He glanced at the child, who ran ahead to chase a butterfly, and realized that some tomorrows were brighter not because they were trapped in glass, but because they were being lived.
He let out a slow, contented breath. And for the first time in a long while, the world felt infinite. Not because it was magic, or because he could see the invisible threads of possibility—but because it was here. Right now. In the laughter, the wind, the river, and the hearts of those around him.
The old man smiled, walking forward into the sunlight, leaving the empty jars behind, carrying only the gentle, enduring knowledge that every day still held its own kind of magic.
And somewhere, in the quiet shimmer of the town, the tomorrows he had saved .
THE END...