The Clock Ticks by Sophie Levine

She sits at the wide paned-window. Her nose is reddening, pressed against the icy glass, and her own warm breath escapes from her mouth, only to return the same dampness back onto her already clammy cheeks. Except for an occasional shiver, she sits unmoving. In the silence of that empty room, each tick of the clock rings sharp and strong. They hang in the air for a brief moment before they dissipate, and she thinks absentmindedly that there is no such thing as “tick” or “tock”- every second’s pass produces the same rhythmic sound, and any added emphasis on one note is lost in the endless pattern. 

An alarm goes off, or maybe it’s a timer, or a tea kettle whistle, for she fumbles with the switch; her eyes not really seeing it; her mind not really remembering what it is for. It is long past sunset now, but there is no moon, and the clouds envelop the stars. Occasionally, she drifts asleep, only to wake with a start, relieved to see only a few minutes have passed. Soon though, her eyes glaze over again, and again she makes her way towards the weary land of sleep. As the clock creeps past one, she again, is somewhere in that stage, her eyes bleary and her legs stiff against the hard wood of the chair. So when the first honey glow of light seeps through the patch of woods and into her driveway, she smiles dreamily and thinks of fairies. She thinks of the stories her grandfather told when she was a girl, of fairies in their petal dresses and dainty wings, and she sees them holding gleaming candles, dripping hot wax as they float through the forest to put the garden to bed. 

All of a sudden, she starts awake again, rubbing her eyes as she looks around. Did she fall asleep?She remembers the creaking of the door, the sound of soft footsteps on panelled wood. A voice sounds from the entryway. 

“Aw, Ma! You didn’t have to wait up for me!” A girl stands in the doorway, or perhaps a young woman, tall and lithe and strong looking, despite the circles under her eyes. Though clearly worn out, she smiles easily and freely as she crosses the room in a few steady strides. 

“So you said last time.” The woman snorts under her breath. The girl, though, shakes her head lightly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. A minute passes. Then another. At once, their eyes meet, and like moths to a lamp, they are drawn to each other’s warmth. Little sound breaches the center of their embrace. Comfortable murmured noises escape from the sonic wall, but the only discernible word is “know.” Or is it “no”? At this last, they part, each going her own separate way, to her own separate corner of the house. In a minute, the door closes gently behind the girl, and a soft thump echoes through the home. The woman, however, lingers in the doorway of her own room. She gazes out at the hallway, the kitchen, the family room now empty of family. After a moment, she opens her door and disappears into the space beyond it. A thump sounds from within the wood. And in all the motionless rooms of that house, the rhythmic ticking of a clock can be heard. It resonates in the stillness once again.