As Time Passes Man, Time Passes All

The Owl

Darkness has fallen.

The faint tick of an old grandfather clock fills the room. 

An owl sits high upon it. Its eyes wide and still. The tick grows slightly, in rhythm with the owls heartbeat. It goes on and on, and on. Till the hands comes before the eleven. It ticks once more then moves forward. The grandfather clock rings loudly. Its sound echos through the walls. 

Eleven o'clock. 

The bird outstretches its large wings as if it were suddenly awakened. Its eyes frantically move. The owl jumps from its perch and swoops silently to the other side of the room. It lands on a small table and stares at the clock. It turns it's neck to look out the window. The world is quiet. Nothing moves. Nothing livens the streets tonight. 

The owl looks back at the clock. Its eyes travel to the right. A small staircase with a bronze wooden rail leads farther up. The owl once again leaves its perch and glides up, following the rail. It comes to a stop. Leading to a small hallway, with one door at the end of it. The door is cracked open. 

The owl studies it and drifts towards it slowly, landing on the handle. It peeks in. A small bed with a small dresser on the left side is centered in the room. A lump forms in the middle of the bed. The owl gazes at it curiously. It spreads its wings and flies to the dresser. The lump moves. Up and down. Up and down. 

A man.

An old man sleeps soundly, his body hidden beneath the covers. The owl hops onto his pillow and coos softly. The man sleeps on, his breathing short and tight. The owl knows this man. Every night it has swooped in to comfort the man while he slept. Every night, watching over him while the moon climbed the sky.. 

And this was the last night. 

The owl knew of this. It cooed once again, its eyes widening, it spread its wings and, without a sound, flew to the door. It looked back one more time. 

On, the man slept. 

It turned and glided back down the stairs. The owl landed on the table facing the clock. Time had passed. Eleven-fifty-nine. 

It was time.

It flew back to its perch and stood once more on top of the clock. The owl opened its beak, letting out a loud "hoo" as the clock strikes twelve. 

The owl was silenced and fell to the ground. It's feathered body lay motionless. The moonlight fell upon the bird's body as it laid there, its eyes still wide open. The last ring of the clock sounded as the owl closed its eyes. 

Upstairs the man still lay. The old man had died that night. At the stroke of twelve. To the last ring of the grandfather clock, his last breath was breathed and as was the owl's.