Julian was an ordinary man with an extraordinary job: he collected sunsets. The world's atmosphere was changing, the beautiful red and orange hues of dusk were fading into a dull gray. Julian was tasked by the International Preservation Society to archive them.
He didn't use a camera. He used an ornate, mirrored jar. As the final, perfect moment of light faded, he would cap the jar, sealing the precise atmospheric conditions and light frequencies inside.
He had hundreds of jars, stored in a refrigerated vault, each labeled with the date and location: Kyoto Garden, 2042; Sahara Horizon, 2045.
One evening, he was capturing a particularly poignant, lonely blue-and-purple sunset over the Arctic Circle. He capped the jar and turned to leave.
A young boy, part of a local indigenous community, watched him. "My grandmother said you used to share them," the boy said in a small voice.
Julian explained the protocol, the importance of preservation, the need to keep the light safe in the vault.
The boy just looked at the dull, gray sky that had replaced the color. "What good is preserving a memory if you can't feel the warmth of it?"
Julian paused. He took the jar labeled Sahara Horizon, 2045—a vibrant, fiery orange. He opened the lid. A burst of warm, orange light filled the gray air around them. The boy laughed, lifting his hands to the artificial light, feeling the warmth of a sunset he had never experienced naturally.
Julian didn't close the lid. He left the jar open on the ice, its warmth slowly bleeding into the cold air. He went back to the vault, realizing that some things are meant to be used, not just saved.
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