The Iron Keeper

Brass teeth gnash against the creeping rust, turning hours into powder that falls upon the silent avenues below. It counts the absences.

A solitary pigeon rests upon the minute hand, hitching a ride across the face of noon, while below, the stone foundations settle into the embrace of green moss.

There is no one left to check their watches, no hurried footsteps racing the pendulum's swing. Just the slow, deliberate pulse of gears, keeping time for the wind.