THE MUSEUM OF LOST TUESDAYS

The museum had no opening hours. It appeared only when you tried to remember a Tuesday and found a hole where the day should have been.

I found it behind a stationery shop. Inside, glass cases held half-eaten lunches, unsent postcards and the smell of old rain. Each exhibit was labeled with a date and a person's name.

The curator wore a coat sewn from calendars. Her left eye ticked softly. "We don't collect time," she told me. "Only the days people decided were too small to keep."

In the center of the hall was a Tuesday with my name on it, covered by a dark cloth.