The Last

He sat in his hovel, unaware that the world had ended as everyone else knew it. Yet, for him, the wind still blew, the sun did not stop shining, for he was there to see that it had not. Shadows danced in the field where he hermitted for these many seasons, and the clouds drifted slowly along the bluest skies.

He is The Human Endling, the last of his species, but he does not fret. His quotidian will not alter now that he is the last of his kind, and all he will leave behind is a bundle of bones haphazardly arranged wherever he fall without his mortal coil.

Days end and summers pass, the field dries and reinvigorates accordingly, and yet the hermit still sits in his hovel, whittling away his time. His eyes grow crows feet, deeper and darker each years end, and his hands grow ever so unsteady.

He is the last, and the first of us all. He is the first in the line and the last of all mankind.

But you may know him, or at least know of him, as do we all.

He has had many names through time, the hunter, the shadow, the dark, death, the bringer, the reaper. Yet he is none of these, for he simply is there to show when your time has come.

He is Father Time, and at last,

His time had finally come as well.