THE MAN WHO RENTED YESTERDAY

The office was between a dry cleaner and a shop that only sold keys. Its sign said YESTERDAY RENTALS, OPEN TOMORROW. Aiden entered because he had spent seven years wishing he could take back the last thing he had said to his brother, and the door was standing open.

The proprietor looked younger from behind than she did from the front. She offered him a menu of dates. Wedding days cost too much. Childhood birthdays were sold out. Ordinary Thursdays were cheap; people did not remember them well enough to notice they had gone missing.

"The rules are simple," she said. "You can repeat a day exactly once. You must bring it back unchanged. We hold one future memory as deposit." On her counter sat a small jar full of sea glass. Each shard showed a moment that had not happened.

Aiden could choose the Thursday before his brother left town, or the day after his own future wedding—a day that the jar insisted he would someday celebrate.