Gemotions

The antique clock, the one that chimed the hour with a beautiful, melodic sound, had stopped. My father had wound it every Sunday for as long as I could remember. Now, it stood still, frozen in time.

"It's for the best," my dad muttered, avoiding my gaze. He was sitting in his favorite armchair, unusually quiet. He stared at the floor.

A cold shiver raced up my spine. The ticking, the rhythmic pulse of the clock, had always been a constant, a soothing presence. The silence, now, was deafening.