Borrowed Time

The Ashmolean Museum's marble floors gleamed under the soft gallery lights as Anna guided the group of wealthy donors through her latest acquisition: a previously unknown Caravaggio.

"Notice how the light creates this almost supernatural contrast," Anna said, gesturing toward the painting's shadowy background. "Caravaggio was a master of chiaroscuro, using darkness not just as absence of light, but as a presence itself."

She watched their faces transform with wonder—exactly the reaction she'd hoped for. Seven years as Senior Curator had taught her precisely how to enchant potential benefactors.

"Dr. Kaplan," a silver-haired trustee leaned in, "you have quite the eye for these hidden treasures. The Smithsonian's loss was certainly our gain."

Anna smiled. "I simply recognized what others overlooked."

As the group moved to the next exhibition, Anna's assistant approached. "There's someone waiting in your office. Says she has an appointment."

"I don't have any appointments this afternoon."

"She was... insistent." Her assistant's uncomfortable expression told Anna everything she needed to know.

"I'll be right there."

Anna's heels clicked rhythmically as she crossed the museum. She paused briefly before a reflective display case, admiring her tailored suit and the elegant twist of her hair. Seven years ago, she would never have recognized herself in this confident woman. Now, colleagues practically bowed as she passed. Her life was exactly as she'd designed it—prestigious career, respected voice in the art world, financial freedom.

She'd even found peace in solitude. Her three-bedroom flat in Mayfair, filled with tasteful art and mid-century furniture, was her sanctuary. No roommates. No family obligations. No distractions from her work. Just pure, focused achievement.

Anna smiled to herself. It had all been worth it.

She pushed open her office door and froze.

Sitting in Anna's chair was a woman in a tailored black pantsuit, legs crossed elegantly. Her makeup was flawless, her smile revealing teeth like perfect white tiles.

"Hello, Anna," the woman said. Her voice was like expensive whiskey—smooth with a pleasant burn. "It's been a while."

"Maxine." Anna's mouth went dry. "What are you doing here?"

"You remember my name. I'm flattered." Maxine straightened a pen on Anna's desk. "And technically, it's not Maxine. But you knew that already."

Anna closed the door, heart hammering. "It's been seven years."

"Seven years, three months, and fourteen days," Maxine corrected. "But who's counting? Please, sit."

Anna remained standing. "I'm quite busy. We have a new exhibition opening."

"Yes, the Caravaggio. Remarkable find. Almost... miraculous, wouldn't you say?"

Anna's jaw tightened. "What do you want?"

Maxine's smile widened. "It's time, Anna. I've come to collect."

The words sent ice through Anna's veins. "That's not possible."

"Oh?" Maxine raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

"I haven't—" Anna swallowed. "I don't have any children."

Maxine laughed, a sound like crystal breaking. "Is that what you think I'm here for? Your firstborn? Oh, Anna."

Anna's confusion must have shown because Maxine stood and moved around the desk.

"You humans are so literal. Our arrangement wasn't about a child."

"But you said—"

"I said I wanted something you wouldn't miss. Something of no value to you then." Maxine checked her watch. "It's time for you to wake up, Anna."

"I don't understand."

"You will." Maxine extended her hand. "Come with me."

Anna stared at the outstretched hand. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"You already have." Maxine nodded toward the door. "Shall we?"

Something in her tone made refusal impossible. Anna found herself following Maxine through the museum corridors. Strangely, no one seemed to notice them passing.

"Where are we going?" Anna asked as they approached the main gallery.

"You'll see."

The gallery was filled with visitors who moved like ghosts around Anna and Maxine. Maxine led her to a bench facing the Caravaggio.

"Do you remember the night we met?" Maxine asked.

Anna's mind flooded with the memory she'd tried to bury.

Seven years earlier, Anna had been sitting on her bed at 2 AM, surrounded by past-due notices. Her phone screen glowed as she mindlessly scrolled through Instagram, pausing on images of former classmates at gallery openings. Their lives seemed to unfold in a parallel universe of success while she waited tables and struggled to finish her PhD.

Her student loan balance had crossed $180,000. Earlier that day, she'd been rejected for another curatorial position by a smug 25-year-old with family connections and half her qualifications.

She'd switched to TikTok, seeking comfort in short videos. After an hour, a live stream appeared: a woman with perfect hair and makeup in a luxurious office. The username was @MaximizePotential.

"You there, with the art history PhD and the mountain of debt," the woman said, looking directly into the camera. "Yes, you. Anna Kaplan."

Anna nearly dropped her phone. How did this stranger know her name?

"I know what you want," the woman continued. "Recognition. Respect. Freedom from that crushing debt. I can help you get it all."

Anna typed in the chat: How do you know my name?

The woman smiled. "I know many things, Anna. I know you're brilliant but overlooked. I know you've applied for seventeen positions and been rejected from all of them."

What do you want? Anna typed, fingers trembling.

"To offer you a choice. Success beyond your wildest dreams... for a small price."

What price?

"Nothing you'd miss. Just a signature."

Anna hesitated. This is ridiculous.

"Is it?" The woman smiled. "What do you have to lose?"

Fine. How do I sign?

"Just say the words: 'I, Anna Kaplan, agree to the terms.' That's all."

"I, Anna Kaplan, agree to the terms," she'd said aloud, feeling foolish.

The woman's smile widened. "Excellent. Check your email."

Seconds later, Anna's phone pinged. A job offer from the Smithsonian, addressed to her.

Anna looked back at the screen, but the live stream had ended. A business card had appeared on her nightstand—black with gold embossing that simply read POTENTIAL.

"You remember," Maxine said, not a question.

Anna nodded slowly. "I thought it was a dream. Or a coincidence."

"It was neither." Maxine gestured around the museum. "Everything you wanted, I delivered."

"In exchange for my firstborn," Anna said. "That was the deal."

"No, Anna. That's the deal humans expect from stories. Our arrangement was more... innovative."

"Then what did I agree to?"

"Look around you." Maxine swept her arm toward the gallery. "What do you see?"

"Art. Visitors. My success."

"And what don't you see?"

Anna frowned, scanning the gallery. "I don't understand."

"Who's here with you, Anna? Who's sharing in your triumph?"

The question struck her like a physical blow. Seven years of incredible success, and she'd never stopped to consider what was missing.

"I've been focused on my career," she said defensively.

"Yes. Entirely focused." Maxine pulled out her phone—sleek and black like everything else about her. "Here's your Instagram feed from last month."

Anna looked at the screen. Post after post showcased her curatorial triumphs, her television appearances, her book launches.

"Now here's your calendar from last week."

Every slot was filled with work commitments. No dinners with friends. No family visits. No dates.

"I've been busy," Anna said weakly.

"Too busy for your mother's sixtieth birthday?"

Anna's head snapped up. "That's next month."

"It was last year." Maxine's voice was gentle but merciless. "You sent flowers but said you couldn't get away. Your exhibition was opening."

"No, that's not—" But even as she protested, Anna felt the certainty in her bones. She had missed it.

"And your brother's wedding?"

"Ethan isn't married."

"Three years now. To Sophia. They invited you. You sent a check with your regrets."

Anna's breathing quickened. "This is some kind of trick."

"Let me show you something else." Maxine took her arm, and suddenly they were standing in a sunlit kitchen.

A woman in her sixties—Anna's mother—sat at a small table with a man Anna recognized as her father, though his hair was much grayer than she remembered. They were having breakfast, silent, a space between them where a third plate might have been.

Her mother looked up suddenly. "I thought I heard—" She looked around the empty kitchen, then back at her husband. "I thought it might be Anna."

Her father reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "It's Tuesday, Elaine. She calls on Sundays. Sometimes."

The scene changed. They were in a hospital room. Her mother looked smaller, frailer, tubes running from her arms.

"Mom?" Anna whispered, reaching out, but her hand passed through her mother's form.

"They can't hear or see us," Maxine explained. "These are just snapshots of what you've missed."

Ethan—older, with a beard now—sat beside the bed, holding their mother's hand. A pretty woman with dark curly hair stood behind him, a supportive hand on his shoulder.

"Anna said she'll try to come this weekend," Ethan was saying.

Their mother nodded, but her eyes held no expectation.

"Stop it," Anna said, turning to Maxine. "Take me back."

"Back to what? Your perfect life?" Maxine's eyes seemed to darken. "It was never real, Anna. It was the dream I constructed for you."

"What are you talking about?"

"You traded your time for success. Your connections for achievement. Your present for a curated fantasy." Maxine's voice softened. "That was our deal."

Before Anna could respond, the scene shifted again. They were standing in a small café. A young woman in her late twenties, with dark circles under her eyes and slightly disheveled clothes, was taking orders at the counter.

"That's not—" Anna began, then stopped. The young woman reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face—the same gesture Anna made countless times a day.

"That's... me?"

"The real you," Maxine confirmed. "Twenty-nine years old. Working as a barista to make ends meet while you finish your PhD. Desperately trying to find meaning in your studies while drowning in student debt."

"But I'm thirty-six," Anna protested. "I've been the Senior Curator here for seven years."

"In the dream I gave you. The life you thought you wanted."

Anna watched as her younger self handed a customer their change, forced a smile, then checked her phone during a lull. Her face lit up momentarily at something on the screen, then fell just as quickly. She tapped out a response, then returned the phone to her pocket, shoulders slumping.

"What was she looking at?" Anna asked.

"The Instagram account of a former classmate. Just named Associate Curator at the Met."

Anna winced, remembering the sting of those comparisons.

"No," she insisted. "This isn't possible. My life—the museum, my career—it's real."

"Is it?" Maxine snapped her fingers, and suddenly they were back in the Ashmolean. But now Anna could see herself—her dream self—walking through the gallery. As she watched, her image flickered like a faulty projection, becoming transparent then solid again.

"What's happening to her?" Anna asked, horrified.

"She's fading," Maxine said. "Because you're waking up."

"I don't want to wake up," Anna said desperately. "I want to stay here. In this life."

"Even knowing what it's cost you? Even seeing what you've sacrificed?"

"I can change. I can make time for family. For connections."

"That's not how the deal works." Maxine's voice was almost sympathetic. "You chose success over presence, achievement over connection. One cancels the other."

"That's not fair. This isn't what I signed up for," Anna whispered, tears filling her eyes.

"Isn't it?" Maxine's eyes gleamed. "You traded away your attention, your awareness, your capacity to be present in your actual life. You did it one scroll, one swipe, one post at a time. I merely showed you where that path leads."

Anna's vision began to blur at the edges. The museum seemed to waver like heat over asphalt.

"What's happening?" she gasped.

"You're waking up."

"Wait—" Anna reached for Maxine but grasped only air. "Give me another chance."

"You humans," Maxine sighed. "Always wanting second chances."

"Please," Anna begged. "I understand now. I'll do better."

For the briefest moment, something like genuine emotion crossed Maxine's perfect face.

"That's the point, Anna. That's always been the point."

The museum dissolved around them. Anna felt herself falling, tumbling through darkness, past fragments of her dream life—awards ceremonies, gallery openings, television appearances. None of it real. All of it hollow.

As she fell, scenes from her missed real life flashed past: Ethan's wedding. Her mother's birthday. Family dinners where her absence was felt like a physical hole. Friends who eventually stopped calling.

Time lost. Connections severed. Presence sacrificed at the altar of potential.

The darkness gave way to excruciating light.

Anna jerked awake with a strangled cry.

But this wasn't her studio apartment. This was a sterile room with institutional beige walls. A fluorescent light buzzed overhead. The window showed not a brick wall but a manicured lawn with leafless trees.

"Anna?" A gentle voice beside her. "Are you with us?"

She turned to see a middle-aged woman in scrubs. Her name tag read "Claire."

"Where am I?" Anna's voice came out raspy, unfamiliar.

"Lakeside Care Facility. You were having another episode." Claire's smile was practiced, patient. "Do you know what year it is?"

Anna tried to sit up, but her body felt wrong—heavier, stiffer. Her hands were spotted with age, blue veins prominent beneath tissue-paper skin.

"I don't—" Anna began, terror rising in her throat.

Claire placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It's 2060, Anna. You're 65 years old."

"No," Anna whispered. "That's not possible."

Claire adjusted something on the IV stand beside the bed. "Dr. Reyes will be in soon. Try to stay calm."

When the nurse left, Anna struggled to sit up. Her reflection showed a stranger—gray-haired, hollow-cheeked, eyes sunken and confused.

The room held few personal touches. A digital photo frame cycling through images she didn't recognize. A tablet on the bedside table.

With trembling hands, she reached for the tablet. A single message thread appeared from someone named "Sophia."

Ethan and I won't be able to visit this month. Work's been crazy, and the kids have activities every weekend. We'll try for next month, promise. The latest treatment seems to be helping according to the doctors. Less time lost in the fantasy world they said.

Anna stared at the message, dated three months ago. No response from her. No other messages.

She navigated to photos. Years flashed by in reverse—Anna in a hospital gown. Anna at what appeared to be Ethan's daughter's graduation, standing apart, looking confused. Anna alone at holiday gatherings, her smile vacant.

Further back: Anna in her thirties, alone in countless selfies documenting gallery openings, museum galas, book launches. Always alone. Always performing for an invisible audience.

"No," she whispered. "This isn't real."

"I'm afraid it is," came a familiar voice.

Maxine stood at the foot of her bed, immaculate as ever in her black suit. She hadn't aged a day.

"What have you done to me?" Anna demanded.

"Nothing you didn't do to yourself." Maxine moved to the window. "You continued exactly as you were—one swipe, one post, one missed connection at a time. The years slipped away while you were busy building an online persona."

"But the success—the museum—"

"All in your head. Your mind created an elaborate fantasy of the life you thought you wanted. You've been lost in it for years. Brief periods of lucidity, then back to the dream."

"Early-onset dementia, accelerated by chronic isolation," recited Maxine. "That's the official diagnosis."

"This isn't what I signed up for," Anna whispered, tears streaming down her face.

"Isn't it? You traded genuine connection for digital validation. Real experiences for curated ones. Presence for perpetual distraction." She gestured around the room. "This is where that path led."

"Where's my mother? Ethan?"

"Your mother passed fifteen years ago. You were too lost in your fantasy to attend the funeral properly. Ethan tries, but..." Maxine shrugged. "It's difficult to maintain a relationship with someone who's never truly present."

"I need to fix this," Anna said. "Let me go back."

Maxine shook her head. "There is no going back, Anna. Only forward."

"Then what was the point of showing me this?" Anna demanded, voice breaking.

"To wake you up," Maxine said simply. "Not in your imagined past, but in your actual present."

She placed a business card on the bedside table—black with gold embossing.

"The choice is still yours, Anna. It always has been." Maxine moved toward the door. "You can keep living in your fantasy, or you can be present in whatever time you have left. Choose wisely."

She disappeared through the doorway just as Dr. Reyes entered—a young man with kind eyes.

"Anna," he said, checking her chart. "Nurse Claire tells me you had another episode. How are you feeling now?"

Anna stared at her aged hands.

"This isn't real," she whispered. "None of this is real."

Dr. Reyes sighed. "I'm afraid we're losing her again."

As the sedative entered her veins, Anna felt herself drifting back toward the dream of success. The business card burst into flame, curling into ash that spelled a final message:

Borrowed time, spent forever.

Outside her window, families walked across the lawn to visit other patients. Real connections being maintained. All happening without her.

"There's a new exhibition opening," she murmured as consciousness slipped away. "I really must get back."