The Regret Collector
A Short Story by Vasu Gangapalli

They say if you walk the city streets at 3:33 AM—when the world is quiet, and even your shadow forgets to follow you—you might find him.

And so, Arjun walked.

His coat was damp with mist. His hands buried deep in his pockets. The weight in his heart heavier than ever. It had been a year since his sister Aanya died. A year since he didn’t pick up her call. A year since that accident. A year of playing what if games with himself, over and over.

Tonight, he’d heard the whispers again. A homeless man muttering outside the railway station:
“You got regrets? The Collector can help. But remember… some regrets shape you. Be careful what you erase.”

A pale, flickering lantern glowed at the corner of Baker Street and Mirage Lane. Beneath it stood a man with a brown suitcase and a black bowler hat. He wore no coat despite the chill, and his shoes were polished to perfection. His eyes sparkled like mercury.

“Are you the Regret Collector?” Arjun asked, his voice rough from silence.

“I am,” the man said with a nod. “And you’re right on time.”

He opened the suitcase. Inside were dozens of tiny hourglasses—some glowing, some cracked, some completely black. Each of them ticked not with sand, but with flickering memories.

“Tell me what you want to forget,” he said calmly.

“My last call with Aanya. She called me. I ignored it. That regret has eaten me alive. I want it gone.”

The Collector nodded. “I can take that from you. But understand this—without that regret, your grief may lose direction. You may forget why you started painting again. Why you began donating to road safety campaigns. That call defined your redemption arc.”

“I don’t care,” Arjun snapped. “I want to breathe again. Just… take it.”

The Collector nodded solemnly and picked a silver hourglass with a blue shimmer. He tapped it gently, and the air around them pulsed. Arjun felt something shift in his chest—a thread that had been tightly wound, suddenly gone slack.

It was done.

Arjun blinked. The ache in his heart was… dull. The memory of ignoring her call now floated vaguely, like something he once read about.

He took a deep breath.

“Payment?” he asked.

“Nothing,” the Collector said. “For now.”

“For now?”

The man smiled softly. “Sometimes, the universe loans you relief. But you’ll return it in another way. Maybe in a moment of choice. Or love. Or silence. Until then—live lighter.”

And with that, he vanished. The lantern blew out. The night returned to its normal darkness.

—

Six Months Later

Arjun was at his solo art exhibit. His painting “The Missed Call” was the centerpiece, a haunting image of a phone ringing on an empty floor, shadows creeping along the edges. Strangely, he couldn’t remember why he painted it. Only that it felt right.

A woman approached him, tearfully.

“Your work… it reminds me of my brother. I lost him last year. He didn’t pick up when I called… this piece, it’s like my pain on canvas.”

Arjun blinked. He looked at her and then back at the painting. And though he didn’t remember the regret, his heart suddenly ached—not with memory, but with empathy.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Arjun smiled faintly.
“Maybe we all miss calls sometimes. But it’s what we do after that matters.”

—

Meanwhile…

In a hidden alley lit only by the glow of a golden matchstick, the Collector opened his suitcase again. The blue hourglass once filled with Arjun’s regret now sat still—quiet, cold, and sealed.

He added a new label:
“Arjun Malhotra – Returned through Art.”

And he whispered to the night:

> “Some regrets never leave. They simply find better homes.”