In one city lived a man who was always in a hurry.
Not because he was late,
but because he was afraid to stop.
While he was running, it seemed to him that time walked beside him —
slowly, almost politely,
like a companion who does not rush you.
He told himself:
“Now is not the moment to think.
Later I will stop.
Later I will understand.”
And time remained silent.
Years passed.
His legs grew tired.
His breath became shorter.
And one day the man stopped —
not by choice, but by necessity.
He took one calm step.
Then another.
And at that moment he noticed something strange:
time was no longer walking beside him.
It was running.
The man sped up —
and time sped up faster.
He slowed down —
and time disappeared around the bend.
Then he understood:
while he was running,
time was waiting,
because it had nowhere to go without him.
But when the man chose to walk consciously,
time gained direction —
and moved ahead.
The man sat down by the road
and, for the first time, did not try to catch up.
And only then did time return —
not as a race,
but as presence.
From that day on, he no longer said:
“I don’t have enough time.”
He said:
“I am walking.”
And that was enough.