Another ember crackled in the fire, a tiny sun collapsing into ash, while the whispering winds of the past pressed their quiet faces against my door.
The rocking of the smooth pine kept time like an aging metronome, its rhythm thinning with each sway— a cradle for old bones, a pendulum for a fading pulse.
A tickle in my eye misted my squinted greens, and the thought of death curved a smile across a wrinkled map— a traveler recognizing the final landmark.
The crackling on the floorboards moaned beneath the weight of years, and life dripped into the decade‑old grooves, those worn‑in tracks carved by every choice I ever made— a wooden ledger of footsteps and fate.
The last pass of the pendulum as the sickle made its mark, time signing its name across my hours. The chair ground to a halt, and the pianist, solemn and sure, lowered the lid on the box— a final chord struck in the quiet concert of my leaving.
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