15 Days of Summer

In the year 2093, science finally delivered what fiction had promised for centuries: the temporary transfer of consciousness between bodies. The official pitch was noble — to let terminal patients experience life in new bodies while awaiting full transplants — but as with anything involving desire and money, the black market quickly adapted.

They called it Youth Tourism.

Jonas Santiago, 76 years old, a retired multimillionaire aerospace engineer, lived in a glass-and-marble apartment high above the vertical skyline of São Paulo. He had bought everything money could buy — art, cars, total-reality experiences — but none of it replaced what he truly missed: the vigor of youth. That silent power that came from simply existing in a young body. The way people looked at you. The way the world felt full of promise just because you were there.

That’s when he heard about Aurora Exchange, an underground company highly recommended in discreet circles. He hesitated, of course. But at 76, hesitation is just another mask for future regret.

Sitting in the reception room, his left hand trembling lightly — early Parkinson’s — Jonas nearly backed out when they told him the only available body for that 15-day cycle belonged to a 22-year-old woman from the coast.

“A woman?” he muttered, frowning. “There’s nothing else?”

The receptionist shrugged.

“It’s this or nothing. And if you wait for the next cycle, you might miss your compatibility window.”

The transfer happened that same night. A brief flicker of consciousness, and Jonas woke up in Camila’s tiny apartment, wearing a faded hoodie and feeling a strange weight on his chest that unsettled him more than expected. The mirror hit like a shockwave: long, voluminous curly hair, warm brown skin, and a body with full, striking curves that made him instinctively look away. It was jarring — not ugly, not at all — just profoundly different.

He spent the first three days locked indoors, eating little, avoiding every reflection. His new body ached in unfamiliar places. He felt disconnected — almost like an intruder in someone else's life.

But a young body... a young body has its own will.

On the fourth day, he opened the fridge and found a coconut water labeled “for when the heat hits.” Just then, the burning sun outside called to him. He threw on denim shorts, a light tank top, tied the hair in a messy bun, and stepped out.

The first touch of sea breeze on his skin felt like being born again.

The beach was crowded, and for a moment he felt ridiculous — an old mind in a girl’s body, walking among the truly young. But then he ran. Just ran. The cold sand underfoot, the laughter that slipped out uncontrollably. He dove into the water without thinking, and for the first time in decades, he laughed. A real, full laugh.

In the days that followed, he gave himself over to the new life. Sunbathing, dancing at beach parties, sipping colorful drinks with tiny umbrellas. He flirted, shy at first — but he flirted. He started to enjoy the sound of his voice, the ease of movement, how effortlessly the world smiled back.

On the fourteenth day, he sat in the sand at sunset. The body felt like it had adjusted to the mind — or maybe the mind had yielded to the body. He wasn’t sure. He felt something he couldn’t name — something between longing and peace. Maybe it was the fear of returning.

On the morning of the fifteenth day, the reconnection was made.

The consciousness slammed back into his old body like a stone dropped into shallow water: harsh, jarring. The mirror showed the same man as before, but his eyes no longer tolerated the dullness of eternity.

Jonas returned to his penthouse. Still rich. Still alone. But sometimes, at night, he’d lie on the balcony, close his eyes, and feel the salt of the sea still clinging to his skin — like a memory that time couldn’t wash away.