The face, the legs, the hands, and the body; a broken clock is always a perfect piece from outside. The wheels stopped, and the metal has broken into pieces. The clock from inside is merely a mass of clutter lying inside for just weight to hold on to the winds blowing the dead stuff off the ground. The broken clock sat on the desk, filling space, reminding itself that it has two seconds of the day to feel right.
The clock has lost its purpose. The fake two seconds of the day have passed in grief. The metal inside bled rust, falling off from its butt, and lifted off from the ground by the winds carrying dead to the clouds.
As time passed, as the hands never moved and the face never smiled, days have lost count and desperation has gained weight. The hope is now a blur glass window. For the permanent guest, dust, on the glass, hope has become a sour grape in a deserted area.
A night when the moon shone silver on the trees and buildings, there came a fairy flapping her wings in chains, heavy and tired; She crashed on the table right beside the clock and looked around for help. The chair was busy rocking, curtains, busy floating, windows, busy watching the silver coin from the skies. The pens were sleeping, table lamp, already drowsy. And the clock with eyes wide open, neither making a move nor speak.
The fairy dragged herself, one inch towards the clock, the metals quivered inside. She took another inch, the wheels trembled. She dragged herself one last inch, extended her hand, wiped off the dust with a few strokes, to see her face on the glass beyond the dust when the moon shone on her face, brighter than her smile. She stared into the eyes of the dead but not buried clock. She stared into the eyes as the wheels and the metal juggled inside making the clock make its first move in days that lost count; It made its first tick tock.
She woke up, wiped a few strokes on the dusted glass to see the real face of the broken clock which is now making its first move in millions of hours it has forgotten to travel. The wheels and the metal found their place, right and tight, tick and tock. The tick broke a link of the chain on the right wing, and the tock broke it on the left.
The wings shone silver, brighter than her face, and she flapped magic that cleaned the clock sparkling clear. She touched the clock and said, “tick-tock”. Her wings shone brighter and she hugged it. The clock ticked and tocked, the fairy danced.
The hope has now a name, the fairy.
*THE NEW BEGINNING*