"The Timekeeper" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
There was an old clock. It had been carefully constructed by a craftsman long ago—perhaps in the 1890s. Built with precision and care, it possessed a voice rich, deep, and melodic, its chimes resonating with the weight of time itself. This clock found its home in a farmhouse where a boy named George grew up. From his earliest memories, the clock was not just an object but a presence—an integral part of life on the farm.
Each morning, half-asleep, George would listen for the clock’s sonorous chime. When it struck the appointed hour, he would pull back the covers and begin his day. The clock was more than a timepiece; it was the rhythm of his existence. Its song marked breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It signaled the start of school, the time to study, and the time to sleep. As the boy grew, so too did his bond with the steadfast timekeeper. The clock became a companion, a faithful observer of the seasons of George’s life.
Years passed, and George became a man. The old clock remained by his side, its rhythmic ticking a quiet reminder of the passage of time. It ticked off the moments of his life: his marriage, the birth of his children, the joys and struggles of raising a family. Through every triumph and every sorrow, the clock continued its patient counting, as steady as the beating of a heart.
As George aged, so did the clock. Eventually, he retired and built a cabin on a quiet lake in the Wisconsin northwoods. Of course, the old clock came with him, its familiar voice filling the rustic home. But time had worn down its gears, and in an almost human way, it began to falter. It would lose track of minutes, its once-precise chimes now erratic. The roles had shifted—George, who had once relied on the clock to track the hours, now helped the clock keep time. Two trusted companions, one human, one machine, both aging, both facing the quiet inevitability of life’s passage.
Then came the day when George lay on his deathbed, his breath slowing, his body weary from the weight of the years. At 9:25 a.m., his soul took flight on its final journey. And at that very moment, the old clock, his lifelong companion, fell silent. Its rhythmic tick-tock, like a heartbeat, stilled. Its voice, which had once counted the hours of a life well lived, would be heard no more.
~Wylddane
Each morning, half-asleep, George would listen for the clock’s sonorous chime. When it struck the appointed hour, he would pull back the covers and begin his day. The clock was more than a timepiece; it was the rhythm of his existence. Its song marked breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It signaled the start of school, the time to study, and the time to sleep. As the boy grew, so too did his bond with the steadfast timekeeper. The clock became a companion, a faithful observer of the seasons of George’s life.
Years passed, and George became a man. The old clock remained by his side, its rhythmic ticking a quiet reminder of the passage of time. It ticked off the moments of his life: his marriage, the birth of his children, the joys and struggles of raising a family. Through every triumph and every sorrow, the clock continued its patient counting, as steady as the beating of a heart.
As George aged, so did the clock. Eventually, he retired and built a cabin on a quiet lake in the Wisconsin northwoods. Of course, the old clock came with him, its familiar voice filling the rustic home. But time had worn down its gears, and in an almost human way, it began to falter. It would lose track of minutes, its once-precise chimes now erratic. The roles had shifted—George, who had once relied on the clock to track the hours, now helped the clock keep time. Two trusted companions, one human, one machine, both aging, both facing the quiet inevitability of life’s passage.
Then came the day when George lay on his deathbed, his breath slowing, his body weary from the weight of the years. At 9:25 a.m., his soul took flight on its final journey. And at that very moment, the old clock, his lifelong companion, fell silent. Its rhythmic tick-tock, like a heartbeat, stilled. Its voice, which had once counted the hours of a life well lived, would be heard no more.
~Wylddane
RSS Feed