It’s 9:54 in the morning. Nothing stirs, neither in the house nor out. Yet, if I listen close enough there is a ticking noise.
No clockwork device adorns the walls or shelves; all our timepieces are electronic. But still the rhythmic da-dun, da-dun persists.
Could it be the pulse in my ears? I am no stranger to that thrum-thrumming beat, which is why I know my heartbeat is not the sound I now hear.
The noise is regular, sharp. It signifies the counting down of time, of that I am sure. It repeats as steadily as a pendulum swings, each arc carving the future into minute slivers of the present. The past is nothing more than millions of these sliced moments, stored in the mind to be rejoiced, feared or (worse?) forgotten.
But this lyrical waxing does not bring me closer to an answer - what is that sound?
Now I am imagining a grandfather clock, it’s long pendulum an axe attacking time. I think I may have read of such a thing an a Pratchett novel, possibly Mort. It seems a fitting timepiece for the abode of Death.
It that what I can hear? My very own clock in Death’s house, ticking away the seconds of my life?
As frightful as that thought may be, I suppose I should be thankful that I can hear it. While ever the clock ticks, my life continues. A far scarier prospect would be the silencing of that clock, for it could only signify one thing.