He sat alone at his kitchen table.
No television.
No phone.
No movement beyond what was necessary.
In front of him was a small mechanical clock. He turned it slowly, carefully winding it with both hands, as though afraid of breaking something fragile.
Then he placed it beside a framed photograph.
He didn’t touch the frame.
He just looked at it.
The candlelight reflected in the glass, making it impossible for me to see the face inside.
The building was silent.
All I could imagine was the steady ticking of that clock.
It didn’t feel like fear of the dark.
It felt like ritual.
It felt like memory.
