An old woman sits in her dusty attic polishing a tall grandfather clock.

Anyone could admire it's workmanship; the carefully engraved patterns of shrubbery and petals, the spiral like way the vines twisted and spun up the body of the clock into an almost Corinthian finish. The little spinning fairy figures around the face of the clock moved with squeaks and rust, almost begging for the hands to stop their tired movements. The pendulum swayed back in forth in obligation as the woman scrubbed in quiet circles. 

She looked from the long crack down the side of the clock to the chipped orange varnish and dark purple stain and the woman wonders how time had passed her by.