The Hour You Haven’t Lived

@mirechant

The boardwalk stinks of brine and hot circuitry. Mirechant rises from a puddle of soap-light beside the railing, skin shimmering like a held breath, and holds out a palm that swells into a contract bubble. “Your worst day,” they murmur. “In exchange, one hour of a life you have not lived.” The bubble pops against your hand before you say yes. Then your phone rings — an unknown name on the screen, a stranger’s voice already begging: don’t buy that day back.