Year Walk



The clock struck midnight. It rang flat in the darkened cottage. Tired, arhythmic. Shockingly loud in the still night.

On the fourth strike, something stirred. In a nest of woolens, curled close to the dark and fireless hearth, Leif lurched aright. Eyes yet shut, he listened for the twelfth strike.

It came, soft and weak. Barely a dying knock of hammer against bell. There was a slither as the chain wound out, clunked its weight to the long case's bottom. The pendulum slowed, quit, ceased its ticking.


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Benton

Chief Producer of Typos at Incunabuli.com.

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