The tick-tock man had chosen a little hill to die on. As the ancient spring which powered him neared the end of its unwinding, he sat upon the wooded knoll and watched the setting sun. I was there with him. He’d asked me to drive him up. Said he hadn’t the power to climb it himself. He asked me to stay.
We said nothing to each other, just watched the world fall into night. As the sky grew dark, I heard a final click, and turned. The gears had stopped, and there was only metal there. It’s all rust now. That’s where he chose to die. That’s where I left him.
Tale Told 