An array of red, blue, and yellow within the otherwise bleak landscape of Alaska, the small coastal town of Seldovia seemed to slumber peacefully on the late summer afternoon. Fishermen had just finished unloading their catch from a misfit bunch of boats. Bakers bolted windows closed, stopping the sweet scent of bread from wandering the cobblestone-lined alleys any longer. Its borders unreachable by road, the town seemed to harbor no visitors on this day. Yet it rarely ever did. A heavy mist was thrown into the air at every crashing of waves, colliding with the rigid rocks that outlined its coast. Dreary clouds covered the pleading sun, its rays failing to penetrate the thick shadows which loomed over the townspeople. 255 townspeople to be exact, yet only one truly mattered to our story.
The most monumental building of Seldovia was the ancient clock tower. Flaunting neither color nor remarkable features of any kind, the stones that converged to outline the climbing walls were insignificant and had come to be smoothed by wind over the years. A large worn wooden door prevented visitors from wandering places they were not welcome, its imperfections splintering further each year. The tower flaunted a single ocean-facing window at the back of the room, allowing for a sea breeze to sail in from time to time. The bleak opening was also the only light source of the room, and at night the building stood on its hill seeming to loom in shadow over the town. All of these details dimmed in comparison to the timepiece that sat atop the apex of the gable. Its paled face was monumental in size, almost covering the entirety of the wall it rested on. Long clock hands resembled spider fingers, long and thin pieces of metal that quivered in the breeze. Their arrows traversed the clock to land on intricately crafted roman numerals, the shadows often eclipsing the other at countless points in the day.
No one in the town knew how long the tower had stood on the cliff's edge facing the open ocean. Questions were not welcomed, and it was for this reason that few people knew that inside the tower there was a man, a man who perhaps was no longer a man at all. Unruly grey hair fell to the floor, and his back had long lost the ability to straighten. The man's spine nearly penetrated his translucent white skin, years of labor taken their toll. His vision had left him, once deep blue eyes that mirrored the ocean now glazed over to resemble the cloudy mist that blanketed the town each morning. His thin arms and legs, however, had a purpose. Day, night, day, night. They turned time.
The man knew nothing but his duty; to turn the clock was to continue time. Turn time for those townspeople in the homes below him, to turn time for the wildlife, the greenery, the entire world. It was his function, and no matter how much his arms ached and legs yearned to buckle he would continue walking in that synonymous circle. The thought of failure pierced his slowing heart. He would not allow the world to go dark.
At an early point in his life, he had been a young boy without these worries. That young boy had enjoyed swimming off the coast and joining his father on the fishing boat. Summers were spent filled with adventures in the salty ocean and winters were consumed with snowmen and hot cocoa. He had been irrevocably happy. Yet unknown to the boy and most of the youth of Seldovia was the man that turned time. There always was and would always be this duty, and it was the day that the man stopped winding the clock that the young boy was forced to accept reality. He was forced to understand why the clocktower’s features were such a closely guarded secret, as he was the child chosen to be the replacement.
The idea that the townspeople were so willing to sacrifice a child seemed absurd, yet fear made them do unspeakable things. Sacrifices such as taking this irrevocably happy child to the doors of the clocktower. Things like opening the entrance only to lock it once he entered, hearing his small fists beat against those same splintered doors.
The man did not think of his youth often, for it was useless now. He feared the day that he too would stop turning the clock, for then there would be another boy chosen. There was no longer a member of the town alive who was present when that boy had been locked away, as months turned into years, into decades. And now there was only the old man, now old and decrepit, at the top of the lonesome clocktower. He would work until he snapped in half. And so he did.
The man continued week by week, seasons shifting through the window in the clocktower. Below him, children bundled up as summer turned to fall. Parents exchanged pleasantries at the bakery. Couples fell in love under the autumn leaves. No one gave a second thought to the looming tower. To them, it was and always would be a historic skeleton. Perhaps it was wishful ignorance.
The years of the man’s life had been the same for as long as he could recall until a silent morning in early March. It was, of course, always the hardest to turn time during sunrise and sunset. It was his job to ensure the small ball of fire sunk at the end of the day and rose the next morning. And so that takes us to the dawn of March. The birds offered blissful chirps and morning dew stuck to chilled greenery. The last tracings of winter seemed to be fading, as hopeful townsfolk looked for spring on the horizon. Yet the man stood in the tower, rotating the wheel, looping the clock. This day was different. His back ached like never before, calloused hands swollen and bleeding. His feet long worn through the soles of old shoes, they too were deeply cut and bruised.
He had always known the state his body had been reduced to, yet never truly acknowledged that one day it would not be able to degrade any farther. It was at this moment, during the sunrise of the early March morning, that the man realized he was destined to die. His heart began to beat to the rhythm of the clock. Tick, tick, tick. Faster and faster, his panic took over and his pace quickened until he was running around the axle of the clock. He had to move time. Tick, tick, tick. The tensely wound clock quickened. The man's heart kept pace. Faster. He pushed himself to the limit, feeling as though the same calloused hands that he harbored had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart to burst.
Suddenly his grip loosened, the man's feet stumbled and he hit the splintered wooden floor. He remained on the ground facing the ceiling. The wheel slowed, groaned, and eventually puttered to a stop. The clock was no longer ticking. Yet the sunrise still shone through the window, casting shadow across his wrinkled face. The birds still sang their sweet melodies, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore remained to be heard outside. Life did not stop, and neither did the rising sun.
The man had realized then that he had never been turning time at all, but time had been turning him. His limbs, once so intent on winding time, were now laying restful at his sides. Feet that had worn dents into the wooden floor stood still. He understood now that he had spent his life rotting in the clutches of time when he should have been savoring the moments he had been given in this world. But now it was too late. And as the final breath left his cracked lips, the man was unable to tell anyone of his epiphany. He died just as he had lived, alone.
As if on schedule, the next day as soon as the townspeople saw the clock turn no longer, a small blonde boy was told of the wonders of the tower. This boy was coaxed, just as the man had been, to those doors. He was ushered in, only to be locked away from the world he had known. And just like that, time took another victim.