Chapter 13: The Time Collector

Time is a currency few realize they own. People waste it without thought, spend it recklessly, and only when it begins to dwindle do they understand its value. But for me, time was everything. It was my wealth, my lifeblood. I was the Time Collector, and as long as I kept stealing, I would never die.

I first discovered my ability centuries ago, back when the world still ran on candlelight and whispered superstitions. At first, I stole only seconds—a blink of an eye, a moment of distraction. The baker forgot his dough in the oven, the scholar misplaced a sentence in his book. No one noticed. But then I grew greedy.

Minutes became hours, and soon, I was swallowing entire days from people's lives. They would wake up, feeling as if time had slipped through their fingers, unable to recall what they had lost. And I would live on, untouched by age, forever sustained by the stolen moments of others.

I drifted through centuries, an immortal ghost in a world of mortals. I witnessed empires crumble, inventions rise, wars ignite and fade like dying embers. Each time period had its distractions, and they made my work easy. In the modern world, it was almost too simple. Phones, screens, endless entertainment—people lost track of time without any help from me. I merely reached out and took what they didn't even realize was missing.

But eternity breeds complacency. And complacency leads to mistakes.

It happened in a city teeming with life, where the streets pulsed with the heartbeat of millions. I had grown comfortable, stealing time as freely as a pickpocket in a crowd. A businessman lost half an hour during his lunch break. A student forgot an entire morning of his lecture. A mother, distracted at the park, lost the precious minutes she had spent watching her child play.

And then I felt it—an absence, a void where something should be. A sensation I had not felt in centuries.

Someone had stolen from me.

I froze in the middle of the crowded street, the weight of lost time pressing against my chest. It was impossible. I had never aged, never faltered. Yet, in that single moment, I felt… weaker. As if a sliver of my eternity had been carved away.

I spun, scanning the crowd, searching for the thief.

Then I saw her.

She was watching me, a slight smirk curling at the edge of her lips. Her eyes held an unnatural sharpness, a knowing glint that sent a ripple of unease through me. She was young, or at least, she appeared to be. But I knew better than to trust appearances.

She turned and walked away.

I hesitated only a second before following.

She led me through winding streets, through alleys where time seemed to slow, then rush forward again. It was a trick. I could feel her pulling at the edges of time itself, bending it like an artist shaping clay.

At last, she stopped in a quiet courtyard, the noise of the city fading into the background. She turned to face me.

"You felt it, didn't you?" she said.

I narrowed my eyes. "Who are you?"

Her smile widened. "The same as you."

I had spent lifetimes believing I was the only one. The revelation sent a rare shiver of unease through me. "How?"

"The same way you did, I imagine. A gift… or a curse." She tilted her head. "But you never stopped to wonder, did you? If you could steal time, then surely someone else could too."

I clenched my fists. "You took from me."

"Only a fraction. A taste." She stepped closer, and for the first time in my endless existence, I felt small. "You've stolen centuries from others. Tell me, did you ever wonder what happens to them? The people you leave hollow, adrift?"

I frowned. "They survive."

"They exist," she corrected. "But they do not live. You have left behind ghosts, entire lives stolen in increments, memories turned to dust."

I had never cared. Not truly. The past was littered with the forgotten, and I had always walked forward, untouched.

But now, someone had stopped me.

"What do you want?" I asked.

She reached out a hand. "A choice. You have lived for so long, but is it truly living? Or are you merely running, consuming, fearing the end?"

Her words struck deeper than I cared to admit.

"You can take my time," I said slowly. "But why should I give it?"

"Because even you cannot run forever." She studied me, eyes unreadable. "And because I could take it all if I wanted to."

I knew she wasn't bluffing.

For the first time in centuries, I hesitated. I had spent lifetimes consuming, never giving. The thought of surrendering even a fragment of what I had stolen was an alien concept.

But a part of me—the part that had grown weary of eternal wandering, of endless theft—whispered that perhaps it was time.

I reached out, letting her fingers brush against mine.

A rush of sensation flooded through me—centuries of stolen moments, a tidal wave of time unraveling, slipping away. I gasped, my knees buckling as years bled from my body. My skin tingled, the first hints of age creeping in. For the first time in forever, I felt mortal.

And then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

She pulled her hand away, and I was left trembling, gasping for breath. I was still alive, but no longer infinite.

"You're free," she said simply.

A strange emptiness settled in my chest. Not loss. Not regret. Something else.

Relief.

She turned to leave.

"Wait," I called after her. "Who are you?"

She glanced back, a knowing smile on her lips.

"The next Time Collector."

And then she was gone.

I stood alone, the weight of borrowed years no longer pressing upon me. For the first time in centuries, I was truly living.

And somewhere, in the depths of time, another thief began her work.