The old man sat on his porch. A soft, dimpled glow of light fell through the leaves, slanting in sideways from the gently setting sun. He thought back on the long days before, feeling the weight of the spent clock pressing down on him and bending his knees and back.

The skin of his hands was roughened by his days at sea and the ropes that had slid through his fingers. Day in, day out; cords of fiber running through his hands and cords of muscle running down his arms. The cars on the street nearby rushed past the home he had bought with his earnings from successful voyages. Their sound slid through his ears like the waves against the shore when he came aboard and again when he stepped back off, a continent away.

His eyes closed, and the sound of the washing cars up and down the street lulled him away. The clock, so long in running, finally stopped. At long last, terth.