Ember

Darkness embraced him. It was soft, almost warm, protective in a motherly manner. He wondered why it hadn’t smothered him yet.

The sun had not dawned, for he could not make out the tips of his wrinkled fingers. Only when the murky shadows crowding his home assemble into woozy but discernible outlines, do roosters announce the incoming morning.

He dragged himself upright and slowly stretched out a foot to feel for worn slippers.

He had not yet discerned whether he found comfort or insult in the sun’s eternal cycle. Undoubtedly, it is the epitome of indifference. Persistent and deaf to grievers’ cries and lovers’ prayers, through the sky it glides. Should the sun be resented or cherished? It had not acknowledged his own pleas for time, just a little more time. Yet, it now gave order, schedule to his amorphous days.

The old mourner, a ghost in his once vibrant home, drifted toward the kitchen. Months of gloom and solitude had accustomed him to walking the empty halls with but a meagre speck of quivering light.

The coffee pot whistled, slicing coldly through deep silence. Soon after, the old man licked his upper lip, savouring the bitter beverage, hoping that its scalding warmth would fill the void devouring him from the inside.

The stairs were tricky on his aching back, but the sound of ticking clocks was familiar and welcoming. His house stood above the workshop. Both had been closed to visitors and customers for far too long.

The man had grown accustomed to his solitude and was loath to relinquish it. Solitude and darkness were the lone two barriers standing between him and the memories. Memories he did not have the strength to recall. Besides, he believed the effort of reminiscence and acceptance far too futile considering his hopefully imminent death. He had thought about it often. Endlessly. Most of all, he had thought about who he would see again. He had only to wait. The clock was ticking.

He sat on his red-cushioned armchair, nestled behind a cluttered desk, bits and pieces of clock machinery sprawled on the wood. His fingertips were acclimated to the various gears and bolts constituting the clocks’ skeletons. Even in the depth of night, he was wondrously adept at piecing them together and picking them apart. This was the only activity, besides those driven by physiological needs, that paced his days.

The clocks, all ticking in unison, marked the passing of time, a sombre and eerie harmony. His thoughts dredged on rhythmically, his movements on beat. He had become a perfectly oiled machine, forever on time, a clock no different from his creatures.

A rooster crowed; another echoed. A chorus of awakening life. Light was beginning to seep through the boards he had violently nailed to every window in his possession. Though his ambivalent rapport with the most scorching star was a mystery to all, one thing was certain: he feared the light. He feared all that the sun might illuminate, all the walls it might burn through if only given the chance.

Photos, stained with corroding tears and covered in months of heavy dust, adorned the old wooden furniture. Almost one year had passed since anyone had laid their eyes on those cherished memories, now hidden beneath a veil of stifling darkness. He felt them more than saw them. They kept him company, like ravenous vines they embraced his heart, encompassed his lungs, strangled his intestines. Such pressure was habitual, mundane.

The old man’s refusal to remember imposed his very remembrance. He could not escape the memories—not their lively and lived essence, but their daunting and fictitious absence.

He tinkered. He refused to think, to remember. He mended machines, morphing into one himself.

Scritch.

The old man raised his head, setting down the cream-coloured clock he was currently working on. He did not like off-tempo sounds.

Scritch.

Perhaps a gear had fallen loose. If he listened carefully enough, he would find the offending source in no time.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

That was no wayward clock. The sound came from his left, from the wall facing the road. He did not like that side of the workshop. No matter, he would ignore the sound and it would no doubt vanish.

He picked up the clock again and pried open the back plate. One gear carefully placed atop another. It was a wonderful task, so methodical, so constant—there was no room for surprises nor novelties. Its unfaltering steadiness had always been of reassurance to him. Even as a young and daring boy, he had found serenity in his grandfather’s workshop.

Scritch.

He remembered fondly the countless afternoons spent secluded in this same cluttered room, as a thirsty sponge absorbing all he could from his grandfather’s techniques. Friends had warned him that it was a forgotten craft, discarded by modernity, that he should instead aspire for the stars, for he was young and the world was within his reach. Mother fretted that it would not offer him adequate opportunities.

Scritch.

He had never heeded their counsel and could not be gladder. He had lived a full life, brimming with adventure and bursting with emotion, but this little workshop had always offered him comfort, the one true home to return to. In times of need, it had been a lifeline, the only lifeline.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

Oh, how he hated off-tempo sounds.

Muttering and mumbling, he once again put down his clock and hobbled to the left. He squinted into the darkness. No shadow was out of place. Except, perhaps…

Yes, something was definitely protruding from one of the many boarded windows. The boards were nailed onto the windows’ frames from the outside so as to allow him to open and close the glass panels at leisure. Yet, they were so closely placed that he never feared anything breaching his fortress.

The insolent scratching persevered.

The old man furrowed his brows, hesitant before the oddity. A short branch had probably been blown through the loose boards. That would not explain the scratching noise, but he did not, after all, have time for all the questions in the universe.

He inched closer, resolved to yank out whatever was bothering his sacred routine.

Meow.

The old man jumped backward, colliding with a cluttered tool shelf and sending a jar of bolts toppling to the ground. The glass container exploded into sharp fragments, not unlike his mind.

No, no, no, no. He did not like those creatures at all. Messy, noisy, unpredictable. He had to remove it. He must.

He reached out a quivering hand and attempted to push the furry paw outward. The only consequence was increased meowing and a worsening headache. It was stuck. The cat was stuck.

What could he do? He could not leave the poor creature there, trapped and alone, imploring someone to help with pitiful cries. But they are devious things, those cats. And who knows what sort of disease it may have been harbouring in its scrawny body. Perhaps it was a house cat, tidy and squeaky clean, eager to return to its family. Or perhaps it was alone, lost, desperate for comfort and company. No, he could not abandon the creature. He would not want to be abandoned.

He shuffled forward and grabbed a fire poker leaning against the far wall.

Meow.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming. Don’t you worry.’ He winced at the sound of his voice, raucous and harsh. Not a single word had been uttered in this household since he had been abandoned, forgotten as an old book written in too ancient a language to be understood. Though perhaps it had been he who tucked himself away in a nook so deep it could not be reached.

The fire poker slid easily beneath the lowermost board. He only had to push. The cat’s paw was growing increasingly agitated and menacingly clawed. It smelled freedom, ached for it.

The old man took a deep breath, then another. No, he could not do it. He did not like the light. He did not like cats. He was beginning to hyperventilate, growing high on oxygen as his old lungs expanded and constricted quicker than they had in eons. The light. He could not bear the light.

The little creature began wailing, fearful and exhausted, trapped. Its devastated cries grated against the man’s mind, sending his thoughts scattering in a directionless cyclone.

The old mourner knew that the time had come to act. He could no longer ignore his emotions, not unless he was willing to sacrifice this innocent creature’s life.

He pried off the board. The cat came hurtling inside.

Everything was devastatingly bright. He tumbled to the ground, squinting like a mole and shaking his head, attempting to rid himself of the nauseating dizziness. A single ray of sunshine pierced through the window and, before spreading to bathe the entire workshop in soft warmth, hit him straight on his bald head. It was so warm, pleasant even. Revitalising.

Something black and furry collided into him, bounced back, and approached anew. It sniffed the ground around the old man, scouring for traces of malevolence or deceit. Then, apparently satisfied with its findings, it scrambled up his back and perched right atop his head, seemingly intent on sunbathing elegantly.

Initially frozen with surprise, the old man could not help but smile as he acquainted himself once more with the sun. The creature purred against its saviour and did not clamber down the man’s back even as he stood up and looked around.

Everywhere he turned, she appeared, smiling softly, waving or welcoming him with open arms. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Hair red as fire, a spirit just as bold, a warmth both comforting and unforgettable. The red crowned her face in perfect locks, falling just beneath her shoulders. An elegant necklace of white pearls dangled around her delicate neck. Lying on the hospital bed, she had pressed it against his chest, breathing, ‘A little of me so you may always remember’. It was still safely tucked in his jacket’s inner pocket, patiently hanging by the door, awaiting his awakening. Yet, he now thought it would look quite beautiful around his own neck—a little feminine certainly, but a memory of her to forever keep him company.

Her deep eyes reprimanded him: one entire year he had lost to fear and excuses, unable to accept what had already happened, what he could in no way alter. Yet, she smiled, and those green eyes also shone with pride.

The old man reached upwards to stroke the cat, still poised on his head. Perhaps the creature had been a blessing.

‘I will call you Ember, like my wife.’