On the night the sky forgot its stars, Aarav discovered the shop.
It stood between a closed tea stall and an abandoned railway office — a thin wooden door he had never noticed before. Above it hung a crooked sign:
"TOMORROWS FOR RENT."
Aarav laughed.
But he was sixteen, tired of failing exams, tired of being invisible, tired of watching life happen to other people. So he pushed the door open.
A tiny bell rang.
Inside, the shop smelled like rain before it falls. Shelves stretched endlessly, filled with glass jars. Each jar glowed faintly. Some were golden. Some were dark blue. Some flickered like nervous fireflies.
Behind the counter sat a woman who looked both ancient and young at the same time.
"Welcome," she said softly. "What kind of tomorrow would you like?"
Aarav blinked. "What?"
She gestured to the shelves. "Successful tomorrow? Brave tomorrow? Famous tomorrow? Loved tomorrow? They're all here. You may borrow one."
He stared at a jar labeled:
"The Tomorrow Where You Finally Matter."
His heart pounded.
"How much?" he asked.
The woman smiled gently. "Not money. Just one yesterday."
"One… yesterday?"
"You must give me a memory from your past. Any one. It will disappear forever."
Aarav thought of his worst days. The embarrassment. The failures. Easy trade.
"Fine," he said.
She handed him the glowing jar. "Open it before sunrise."
That night, Aarav opened the jar.
Light burst out, wrapping around him like warm sunlight.
The next morning, everything changed.
At school, teachers praised him. His answers were perfect. His jokes made people laugh. The girl he secretly liked smiled at him like he was the only person in the room.
He felt unstoppable.
He mattered.
By evening, the light faded.
Everything returned to normal.
But the memory he had traded — the day he failed his math test — was gone.
He couldn't remember ever failing.
And strangely… he couldn't remember why he had tried so hard afterward either.
The next night, he returned.
"I want another tomorrow," he said.
"Another yesterday," the woman replied calmly.
This time he gave her the memory of being laughed at during a school play.
Again, he borrowed brilliance.
Again, the next day was perfect.
Again, it faded.
And another piece of his past disappeared.
Days turned into weeks.
Each borrowed tomorrow was extraordinary.
Each payment erased something painful.
The day he was bullied — gone.
The day he cried alone — gone.
The day he disappointed his father — gone.
Slowly, Aarav felt lighter.
But also… emptier.
He stopped remembering why certain songs made him emotional. He stopped remembering why he once feared speaking in public. He stopped remembering the promises he made to himself.
One night, he looked into a mirror and realized something terrifying:
He could not remember the last time he had felt real happiness without borrowing it.
He stormed into the shop.
"Give them back!" he demanded.
The woman looked at him with sad eyes. "I cannot."
"You took only my worst memories!"
"No," she whispered. "I took your growth."
Aarav froze.
"Pain is the soil," she continued. "Without it, nothing strong can grow. Every failure you erased was a root. Every humiliation was a lesson. You traded the climb for the view."
He looked at the nearly empty shelves behind him.
"What happens when I run out of yesterdays?"
She met his eyes.
"You become a person with no story."
That night, Aarav did not open a jar.
He walked home under a starless sky.
For the first time in months, he allowed himself to fail a math problem.
He allowed himself to feel awkward.
He allowed himself to be human.
It hurt.
But it was real.
The next morning, there was no magical glow.
No instant perfection.
But when he answered a question correctly — after struggling for it — something inside him felt stronger than any borrowed tomorrow.
Years later, the shop disappeared.
No one else remembered it.
But Aarav did.
Because he had chosen to keep his yesterdays.
And that was the day he finally earned his own tomorrow.