The Silent Timekeeper

Dust on the glass.

My fingertip traced 3:17,

a fixed moment,

held for months, maybe years.

The hands, ornate, still,

like a promise broken

mid-sentence.

No more steady click,

the small heart of the house

gone quiet.

Just the refrigerator's low thrum

from the kitchen,

a different kind of hum,

unconcerned with seconds,

only with cold.

I meant to fix it.

I always meant to.

Now, the lack of its rhythm

is just another rhythm,

a hollow where sound should be.

The house breathes around it,

and 3:17 stays.