Here’s another beautiful story by Ekaterina Tretiakova, mysterious and magic. She has a lot of them, I reccomend a roundtrip.
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He knew his time had come because the clock had stopped.
Of course, there were other signs too. You couldn’t miss them, really. The TV set had frozen on an image of some infomercial nightmare; the radio had cut the presenter off midsentence; the sound of lawnmowers, passing cars, and singing crickets had all stopped together.
But none of those things had quite the same effect as the clock.
It was altogether an ordinary looking clock, with three slender hands; one for the hours, one for the minutes, and one for the seconds. The gears clicked rather loudly. When the clock hit either midnight or noon, it would ding twice, and once when it hit six o’clock in the morning or evening. The numbers were plated with silver and looked even larger under the thick crystal that sheltered its simple face. When it came down to it…
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