It wound the grandfather clock once again, slowly turning the little key with it’s bony fingers. The ticking was loud in the dusty hallway, and It was alone, sad, and hungry.

Then the young couple arrived, soaking wet and in need of a phone--but the phone hadn’t worked in years…

They were once so happy, so whole. When did their happiness become so broken, so scattered among all of the stupid, pointless arguments? How did he get here, stuck in traffic, being screamed at for being a female coworker's Secret Santa? Shouldn't she know by now? His life was hers.

A thousand maybe-this/maybe-that's passed with the hours of the Night. She stood there at the appointed stop, the designated moment; and watched. She had no stomach for killing Time, and imagined every worst possible outcome... except this one. He was late! when she'd been so loath to punch the Clock...