On the edge of town, an orchard grows fruit from hours people lost scrolling feeds and waiting in lines. Trees bear luminous apples, skins shimmering with paused seconds. Farmers tend carefully, pruning regret. Visitors harvest lost time for a price. Each apple, when bitten, returns an hour to the eater—an hour of focus, of presence. Lina, exhausted by her job, buys a basket. She eats one and feels an extra hour bloom. She reads unhurried. The orchard has rules: time returned must be used intentionally. If wasted, the hour rots, leaving a sour taste.
Lina experiments, using hours for naps, art, conversations. She becomes a regular. One day, she notices a tree with withered fruit. The farmer explains those hours were lost to grief; they are heavier, harder to reclaim. Lina offers to help prune gently, singing to branches. The fruit brightens slightly. Word spreads. People bring communities to tend the orchard, treating lost time as something worth cultivating. A tech company tries to buy the orchard to monetize the fruit. The town votes it down. They form a cooperative, ensuring access. The orchard thrives, reminding everyone that time, once lost, might still be tasted if you are willing to bite into what you avoided. Lina plants a sapling in her yard, donating an hour of her own doomscrolling to see what grows. It sprouts slowly, leaves smelling faintly of second chances.
Seasons pass. The cooperative starts a practice: when someone dies, their remaining lost hours are gifted to the community. A memorial tree bears fruit that tastes like unfinished conversations. Lina bites one and calls her estranged friend. The orchard becomes not just a place to reclaim time, but to redistribute it. Signs at the gate read, "Take what you need. Return what you can." Visitors leave lighter, pockets sticky with apple juice and plans.