Everyone in the village said tomorrow didn't belong to anyone.
It arrived on its own time and left without saying goodbye.
But Arif was curious.
Behind his grandfather's old clock shop, hidden under a loose floorboard, there was a small brass watch. It didn't tick like the others. Instead, it hummed—softly, like it was breathing.
"What does it do?" Arif once asked.
His grandfather smiled, the kind of smile that carries a warning.
"It borrows tomorrow," he said. "One day at a time."
One evening, when the village slept and the power was out, Arif took the watch. He held it tight and whispered, "Just one tomorrow."
The world blinked.
Suddenly, it was morning—but not this morning. The calendar on the wall showed a date from the future. Arif ran outside. The dusty road was now smooth, solar lights lined the streets, and his school had turned into a tall glass building. People walked faster, spoke smarter, lived differently.
At first, it felt amazing.
He knew answers before questions were asked.
He avoided mistakes before making them.
Life felt easy.
But something was wrong.
Each time he used the watch, the present grew quieter. His friends laughed less. His grandfather became weaker. The village felt… thinner, like pages being torn from a book.
Arif finally understood.
By borrowing tomorrow, he was stealing from today.
He ran back to the shop, heart racing, and placed the watch under the floorboard again. As soon as his fingers let go, the hum stopped.
The next morning, the village woke up noisy and imperfect. His exam was hard. He made mistakes. He failed once.
But his grandfather smiled proudly.
And Arif smiled too.
Because tomorrow isn't meant to be borrowed.
It's meant to be earned—one today at a time.he boy who borrowed tomorrow