the identification papers were gone. pictures that hold the true reflection of what he once was were lost to the wind. no one knows him now, especially when he doesn't even recognize himself. friction from the years has worn out his fingerpads, drawing lines and marking scars. a bar of soap could just as easily have washed away his story.
the stoic clockmaker over the counter tries to be discreet, not that he could care less, not while his head echoes with the thunder raging on over the roof.
"how much time do i have left?" he finally manages work his vocal cords.
"to be honest, about an hour" came the reply.
sixty minutes. he had to remind himself that the man was a goddamn clockmaker, not a timemaker.
would sixty minutes be enough to find himself again? or would sixty minutes be enough to create himself anew?
guess this winter would be long and cold after all, he decided.
The following challenges were completed during the writing exercise:
Begin Start typing to begin
Words Reach 50 words
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