Night enveloped Aion’s apartment, the corners draped in deep shadow. He sat unmoving at his desk, the stranger’s proposition echoing in his head: five hundred years. The idea was as captivating as it was impossible. He stared at the blank wall, its emptiness mirroring his own search for answers.

  Restlessness gnawed at him. Rising from his chair, he paced the length of his small living area. Usually, solitude brought him peace; tonight, it abandoned him. He briefly considered turning on music but dismissed the thought. He wanted clarity, not distraction.

  Stopping by the window, Aion peered at the glowing cityscape. Streetlights and neon signs cast a constant hum of light across the urban sprawl. A bicyclist zipped down the street below, a flicker of motion against the steady skyline. Outside, the world churned on, oblivious to the storm in Aion’s mind.

  He returned to his desk and fired up his computer. The soft hum of the machine seemed loud in the otherwise silent room, and the bright screen cut through the darkness. His fingers flew over the keyboard, searching for anything that might ground the stranger’s incredible offer in reality—extended life, time manipulation, encounters with mysterious figures.

  Forums, articles, and conspiracy theories flooded his screen. Myths of immortals, cryptic deals with otherworldly beings, rumors of secret societies. Nothing concrete, yet threads of eerie similarity appeared in bits and pieces. He leaned back, massaging his temples. This is absurd, he told himself. Yet the stranger had known personal things about him—his restlessness, his longing for something beyond the mundane.

  Aion’s gaze drifted to his phone lying beside the keyboard. He thought of calling someone, just to hear a familiar voice, to tether himself to normalcy. He scrolled through his contacts until he landed on Peach. A slight grin tugged at his lips. She’d probably find this all ridiculous, but her excitement would be genuine. The thought alone was comforting.

  Still, he and Peach weren’t close—friendly, sure, but not confidants. Sharing something this bizarre might make her question his sanity. He set the phone aside and headed to his modest workout area. Maybe a good sweat would chase away the uneasy energy coiled in his chest.

  Dropping into push-ups, he felt his muscles burn, each repetition a fleeting attempt at clarity. Pull-ups followed, then stretches to loosen the knots in his back. Sweat trickled down his forehead, but the haze of unanswered questions refused to lift.

  Once finished, he slumped against the wall, breathing heavily. Is this my life now? he wondered. Routines in an endless cycle, waiting for something more. The stranger’s proposition—outlandish as it was—hinted at a chance to break free from that monotony. But at what price? The man had mentioned no terms, and the uncertainty gnawed at him.

  Unwilling to succumb to rest, Aion showered, changed into fresh clothes, and brewed a cup of tea. Returning to his computer, he approached the puzzle from another angle, this time digging into scientific advancements: genetic engineering, experimental technologies, life extension theories. Nothing offered a timeline spanning centuries. Of course not, he thought, frustrated. It’s too surreal.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  He glanced at the clock; it was well past midnight. Peering through the window, he saw the city lights still glowing, as if it never slept. He felt a strange kinship with the sleepless metropolis tonight.

  A new blank document beckoned him, and he typed a single question: “If I had five hundred years, what would I do?”

  He paused, fingers hovering. Travel the world? Master every language? Pursue every art or discipline imaginable? The possibilities were endless, but a deeper question rose in him: Why me? The stranger’s words played back in his head: “You want more, even if you haven’t admitted it yet.”

  Aion thought back to the earlier café visit, recalling the banter of his friends and the radiant spark that Peach seemed to carry. He realized how distant he often felt in social settings—watching life happen, rather than living it. Perhaps this offer was more than a path to longevity. Maybe it was a path to meaning.

  But how could he possibly trust it?

  Shaking his head, Aion saved the document and shut down his computer. A rush of stale air greeted him in the hallway as he stepped out of his apartment. The corridor’s stillness gave him pause, but he pushed through, descending the stairs until he reached the cool night outside.

  The street was quieter now but far from deserted. A couple left a late-night diner with laughter lingering in the air behind them. A street performer carefully packed away his guitar, humming under his breath. Aion walked aimlessly, hands tucked in his coat pockets, eyes roving over the city’s nocturnal rhythms.

  He wandered into a tiny park hidden between towering buildings. The city skyline loomed overhead, its lights outshining the faint stars. Sinking onto a wooden bench, he let himself be enveloped by the hush of this small oasis.

  Again, his mind replayed the offer: five hundred years. Could he really walk away from that possibility? Logic warned him of scams, dangers, and traps. Yet deep inside, something yearned for the extraordinary—yearned so strongly it seemed to override caution.

  A slight rustle broke his reverie. An elderly man had sat down on the far end of the bench. The man wore a well-worn coat and sprinkled breadcrumbs onto the ground, drawing a few curious pigeons.

  “Quiet night,” the man remarked without looking up.

  “Yeah,” Aion replied, keeping his voice low.

  They shared a comfortable silence before the old man spoke again, his tone gentle. “You seem like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  Aion hesitated. “Just restless,” he finally said.

  The man nodded. “Restlessness can be a good thing. Means there’s a fire inside you, looking for what’s next.”

  Aion studied the stranger. He had a kind face etched by time. “Have you ever been offered something… that seemed too good to be true?”

  The old man chuckled softly, tossing another handful of crumbs. “Life’s full of offers, son. It’s the choices you make that shape who you become.”

  “How do you know which choices are right?” Aion asked.

  “You don’t,” the man answered. “But sometimes not choosing is the biggest mistake of all.”

  Aion let those words settle, a mix of apprehension and hope swirling inside him. He turned to ask another question—but the bench was suddenly empty. The old man had melted into the darkness without a sound.

  Startled, Aion stood and scanned the park. Not a trace of the man remained. He exhaled, a ripple of unease passing through him. Deciding he’d had enough excitement for one night, he left the park and headed home, the stranger’s advice echoing in his mind.

  Back in his apartment, exhaustion finally pulled at him. He changed into comfortable clothes and slipped under the covers. Sleep came in fits and starts, his dreams jumbled with shifting faces and endless corridors. Yet through the haze, the thought persisted: if a door to five hundred years stood open, could he truly afford not to step through?

  Franz Kafka