The Weight of Time - a short story

Eleanor sat on the park bench, her hands wringing the strap of her worn leather bag. The autumn leaves swirled around her feet, but her mind was elsewhere—trapped in a loop of yesterday’s regrets and tomorrow’s fears. She was 42, a librarian with a penchant for order, yet her thoughts were a storm. She replayed the argument with her sister from last week, her sharp words cutting deeper in memory than they had in the moment. Then her mind leaped to next month’s bills, the looming possibility of layoffs at the library, the what-ifs piling like heavy books on a sagging shelf.

She barely noticed the old man who sat beside her, his cane tapping lightly on the pavement. He was small, with a face etched like tree bark, and he carried a quiet calm that seemed to soften the air around him. He didn’t speak at first, just watched the pigeons peck at crumbs near a fountain. Eleanor, lost in her spiral, muttered aloud, “If only I’d apologized to her. And what if I lose my job? What then?”

The old man tilted his head. “Sounds like you’re carrying a lot of time in that head of yours.”

Eleanor blinked, startled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to— I just… I can’t stop thinking about what’s done and what’s coming.”

He nodded, as if he’d heard it a thousand times. “Mind if I tell you a story?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “When I was your age, I was a worrier too. Carried the past like a sack of bricks—every mistake, every fight. And the future? I built disasters in my head that never came. Lost my wife to illness young, and I spent years blaming myself for not catching it sooner. Then I’d fret over what my life would be without her, how I’d manage. One day, I was so tangled in it all, I didn’t notice a storm coming. Stepped right into a flooded street, nearly drowned in a foot of water.”

Eleanor gave a small laugh, despite herself. “That’s… dramatic.”

“Isn’t it?” He grinned, his eyes crinkling. “Point is, I was so busy living in ‘what was’ and ‘what might be’ that I missed the rain right in front of me. Took a near-drowning to realize it. The past? It’s gone, like dust in the wind. The future? It’s just a guess, and most of our guesses are wrong. All we’ve got is now—this bench, these birds, this breath.”

Eleanor frowned, skeptical. “But how do you just… stop worrying? Things do go wrong.”

“They do,” he agreed. “And when they do, you deal with them. But worrying ahead of time? It’s like paying interest on a loan you haven’t taken out. Useless. Damaging, even. Robs you of the moment you’re in. Look around—see that kid over there, chasing a leaf like it’s treasure? That’s living.”

She followed his gaze to a small boy, giggling as he darted after a bright red leaf. Her chest loosened slightly, the weight of her thoughts shifting. “So, what did you do? After the flood?”

“Started small,” he said. “Took walks without a destination. Ate my breakfast slow, tasted every bite. When I caught myself worrying, I’d name one thing I could see, hear, feel—right then. Kept me anchored. Over time, the past stopped screaming, and the future… well, it just got quieter.”

Eleanor leaned back, the bench cool against her spine. The park was alive—squirrels scampering, the fountain’s gentle splash, the crisp air filling her lungs. For the first time that day, she noticed it. Really noticed it.

“Try this,” the man said, standing with a creak. “Count five things you can see right now.”

She hesitated, then spoke. “The leaves. The fountain. That kid’s blue jacket. Your cane. The clouds.”

“Good,” he said, tipping his hat. “Keep counting. Life’s a game, not a burden. Savor it.” He shuffled off, leaving her alone with the pigeons.

Eleanor sat there, her bag strap still in her hands but no longer twisted. The argument with her sister still stung, and the bills hadn’t vanished, but they felt… lighter. Distant. She closed her eyes, breathed in the autumn air, and let the moment hold her. For now, that was enough.