The clock sat incongruously on the mantle, its gold-finished bronze surface covered with the warm patina of age. With its elaborate cut-bronze floral decoration and delicate white enamel face, the clock felt out of place amongst the rest of the cheap, utilitarian particle board furniture in the house. It rested there confidently with a sturdy handle projecting from its top, leaving one with the impression that it was the only truly solid object in the room.

He hated the clock. Not only because it didn’t fit with his minimalistic interior design sensibilities, but because it reminded him that he was also a man out of place. A man out of time. The ridiculous thing didn’t even function anymore. It sat there, hands motionless, simply observing. A late 19th century carriage clock had no more purpose in 2095 than he did, and yet he and the clock had found themselves there together. And together they sat, hands motionless, simply observing.