The Clock Stopped [PK]

[Sander 3155]

The Clock Stopped.

 

The old grandfather clock in the diningroom ticket irregularly. Tock tick tock tock tick. Feodor had gotten used to it however. The clockmaker had neglected coming over to the old man's house for so long now, he didn't notice the flaw in the clock's mechanism anymore. It wasn't just the clockmaker though, nobody came to visit anymore. He understood, sure. People had their own matters to attend to, their own lives, their own business. Jobs to do, events to attend. Feodor understood that few if any would spare the time to come by the home of a relic of a previous generation, someone out of touch with the current times. He understood, but that didn't make him less saddened by the lack of visitors.

Back when he was mobile enough of body, and bright enough of spirit, he'd still spend much of his days in the library, the place where he'd worked for most of his life, where he'd built a vast collection of books and artworks he held incredibly dear. In recent years he didn't come there to do work much anymore, but it gave him a place to interact with people, the ones that visited his library, the ones who liked talking with him about literature, or who would come to him to ask questions. He couldn't do that anymore now, the short walk tired him too much and put too much strain on his joints. Not to mention the chest-pains that had become more and more prevalent in recent years took his breath away whenever Feodor exhausted himself too much.

It was cruel luck, one could suppose, that he managed to purchase a home shortly before his retirement as Aulic Envoy, where he could waste away in his elderly years. Initially he'd joyfully worked in the little garden outside the house, and hosted dinner parties in the dining room. He... didn't do that anymore either. Sometimes Feodor wondered how the days went by so fast these days, whole weeks would pass in which he felt like he didn't accomplish anythingat all. Not that he had people to host dinner parties for anymore anyways. In his old age Feodor came to regret that he never had children, never married. He had never acted on his attraction for men, but to his regret he'd never forced attraction for women either. Perhaps if he'd done so, he'd have had grandchildren who would visit.

There was at least still one person who regularly came by and would talk to him. The lady who had been Sir Feodor's housekeeper for some years now wasn't very talkative to his regret, but she allowed him to continue living in his abode even though he was no longer able to do the cleaning and washing. Yes he was quite content with her, minus the fact that she kept misplacing his things. As Feodor shakily shuffled into his bedroom to put a record into his music box, he found it wasn't on the table where he left it. He knew very well where it was though: the housekeeper had put his records upstairs on his desk as always. Normally he didn't push himself to climb the stairs of his home anymore these days, it exhausted him too much. Normally he'd just wait for the housekeeper to come by again in two days so she could grab it for him. It was a cold morning though, and Feodor wished to hear some music to warm his old heart, so up the stairs he went.

Tock tick tock tock .... Halfway up the stairs Feodor stopped. Something had changed. He stood there for a moment, shakily holding onto the railing of the stairway as he listened. The old man could barely breathe under the physical stress of having to climb the stairs, his heart skipping beats as he felt his chest pounding due to heart palpitations for what seemed like the fifth time this week. The clock had stopped, that's it! The clock... Behind him, down the stairs, in the dining room, yes... As Feodor turned about to go back down the stairs and have a look at the clock, his shaky grip on the railing slipped. For a split second Feodor felt dizzy, as if he was floating and was young again and didn't feel the strain of his joints. It was a split second before he realized he was in a free fall down the stairs. As his body hit the hardwood floor, it made only a soft thud, muffled by his thick woolen robe. 

Feodor didn't really know what he was feeling. Somehow, somewhere as if it was far away, he could sense a dull hurting, a numbing sense in his lower body perhaps? He opened his eyes as he let out a final, raspy breath, looking down the hallway along the floor, the grandfather clock in the distance. There were... black spots in his vision, but nevertheless he could see it for sure now: the clock stopped.

 

 

 

Sir Feodor Andrik May

*1803/356 E.S.                      +1883/436 E.S.

[tcs_tonsils_ 2829]

Borris Iver Kortrevich sat upon the floor, poems and writing scattered upon the floor of his work area. He had admired May's work, an inspiration for his own words. The great poets he had learned from were all but gone. 

[Lokvank 334]

Upon hearing of his former employers passing, Gustaf Sigismund would frown, his expression not changing excessivelly oterwise. "The departure of a great man, and great musician this is, certainly." He would mutter to himself, sighing softly thereafter as he lowered his head slightly "There's niet many left, either.." The elder musician would then add.

[Wretched Aidan 455]

Pyotr Ludovar let’s out a pained sigh, as another whom he looked up to, or another in general breathes their last. “Dravi friend.. Dravi..” He mutters under his breath before returning himself to sleep.

[1_Language_1 1670]

       "I will do my best to keep your library alive." Sadeeq whispered to himself and nodded slowly as he heard the news, the local library seeming so quiet without Feodor. The benevolent spirit moved to sit behind the desk in the library, going to finish up the old man's old work so that Feodor died without completing his duty. He gently scratched the remaining work in the ledger, before shutting the book and putting it away. 

 

         "I just wish I could have said goodbye first. He was a good man." He stood quietly in the empty space, the new design seeming so cold and complicated.