The Girl Who Borrowed Tomorrow
In a quiet town where clocks were never quite right, there lived a girl named Elia who could borrow pieces of tomorrow.
She didn't steal the future—she only touched it gently. A laugh that hadn't happened yet. A tear that was waiting for a reason. A sunrise meant for the next day. When Elia held these moments, the present felt warmer, more hopeful.
People didn't know her secret. They only knew that standing near Elia made sadness feel lighter, as if time itself was taking a deep breath.
Every night, she returned what she borrowed. She whispered apologies to tomorrow and placed its moments back where they belonged. Because borrowing hope was harmless—but keeping it forever would break the world.
One evening, Elia met a boy who had no tomorrow at all.
He sat by the river, staring at the water like it held answers it refused to give. Elia reached out instinctively, trying to borrow a piece of his future—but there was nothing there. No laughter waiting. No sunrise queued. Just emptiness.
For the first time, Elia felt afraid.
So she did the one thing she had never done before.
She gave him her tomorrow.
She placed it in his hands: her unwritten pages, her unseen mornings, her maybe-happiness. The air trembled. The clocks in the town finally aligned.
The boy smiled—not because the pain disappeared, but because now, there was a next.
And Elia?
She woke up the following day with no borrowed future, no stolen moments—only the present.
But for the first time in her life, that was enough.
Because sometimes, the most powerful magic
is not taking hope from the future,
but choosing to become someone else's.