A creak, a groan, the splintering of wooden beams. 
John ascended the spiral staircase of his grandfather’s horologe house, walls lined with photo frames, memories of a bygone era. 
“Keep climbing,” he told himself, each step heavier becoming beneath his weight. 
Guided by the flicker of a solitary flame, he reached the tower’s pinnacle. 
Hand quivering, he pushed open the heavy oak door. 
Dust blew through the cracks, extinguishing his guidelight. 
In the darkness of the clocktower, he heard it, ticking beneath the floorboards, whispering its secrets. 
Alas, the clock never truly stopped. 
And suddenly, he realized, neither did Grandfather.