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. All was again still, silent.

Benton

Chief Producer of Typos at Incunabuli.com.

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