Twelve Strokes

Final
The old mans blue eyes stared, unblinking, at the clock mounted on his living room wall.
Its rusty bronze pendulum swung back and forth as a soft cadence counted each passing second.
11:59:56. Tick.
11:59:57. Tock.
11:59:58. Tick.
11:59:59. Tock.
12:00:00. The man made no movement as the old clock croaked out a tune that must have
once resembled Westminster Chimes. As the twelve feeble strokes that followed reverberated off
the walls of his brain, the man was absorbed into the past. Here, the fuller, sweeter tune of a
much larger clock drowned out the rusty groaning coming from his living room.
The last chime rang out loud and strong for several seconds before fading to a whisper.
He was on a train platform in London, and she was there.
He could see her through the thick stream of comers and goers, standing by the ticket
booth. She was holding a red leather suitcase that somehow made her porcelain skin appear even
paler. The scarlet-clad official selling tickets said something and she responded by setting the bag
at her feet and reaching inside of her jacket to produce a small piece of paper. The man was too
far away to see what it was, but he already knew.
SINGLE TICKET
June 15, 1959
Departing from Pond Street Station, 12:15 p.m.
Arriving

Arriving where? When? He needed to know. He needed to talk to her, to find out where
she was going. To find out why she was leaving.
Leaving me, he thought, and he wilted, his head drooping like the petals of a dying
flower. The squeak of a strangers luggage cart pulled the man back into the present. He looked
up in time to see the woman pick up her suitcase and walk towards the platform to wait for her
train. A new resolve blossomed within him, and he organized his thoughts, straightened his back,
and was about to step towards her when he suddenly reverted to his former state.
This time, he told himself, I will remember every detail. The man stood on the platform
for several minutes, transfixed. He paid close attention to her dress, which fluttered a little with
every passing breeze. Noticing that it was the same color as the sky, he smiled. He watched as
her dark curls tangled in the wind, and laughed a kind of sad laugh as she attempted to tame
them, patting her hair down only to have it fly back up again. Every little while, the woman
would turn her head in his direction, looking for her train. The mans heart sunk as her dark eyes
saw straight past him.
He examined the faded grey of her shoes and took note of the way that she squeezed her
eyes shut during strong gusts of wind. There was a silver charm bracelet on her right arm, thin
like spiders silk, and absolutely beautiful. He thought he could make out a small sun hanging
from it, and a little heart, and a music note, and
He became sick to his stomach when he heard a small child blowing into a kazoo. Hed
heard that noise before, hed been here a thousand times. The man checked the clock on the wall,
although he didnt need to. 12:09, it would read. Time was running out. He had until 12:15. That
was when the train would come. Come and leave, he thought. But not with her on it. He wouldnt
let that happen. Not again.

The man squared his shoulders once more. His breathing was shallow. His legs shook,
but he took a step forward. He swallowed. Another step. Soon, he was close to her, so close that
he could see the large red stamp on her ticket.
ONE WAY
He stopped moving. She didnt want him here. Hed known that all along. He should
leave. He would leave. He would walk away, and let her have her peace, give her the space that
she clearly wanted . . .
But this was the first time hed made it this far. This time hed reach her. This time hed
talk to her, this time hed make her stay. A swell of courage overtook him until his stare was
drawn back to her ticket. In that red mark, the man saw a vision of broken hearts and bloodshot
eyes. It was terrible, he knew he had to stop it, but in that moment it was all he knew. To go, he
thought to himself as he moved his gaze from the ticket to the woman holding it, or to stay?
His decision was made for him when her head turned in his direction. Her eyes met his
with the same look of dismay hed seen so many times before. He gulped, but couldnt make
himself swallow. He exhaled, long and quiet, their gazes never parting. The man picked up his
foot to take a step forward, and her head snapped away. She started walking in the opposite
direction, and his foot plummeted back to the ground like a rock. His heart sank to his toes.
She stopped walking and alternated between watching for the train and glancing at him
with obvious discomfort until another woman, this one with straight blonde hair, greeted her. The
two embraced. Probably old friends, the man thought. The idea was sweet. He would have
smiled if the little time hed had wasnt trickling away faster than he could grasp it. He had to
bring her home. He had to save her. Hed do it. This was the time. He knew it, he just knew it . . .

He reached her just as the second woman was retiring. She saw him coming and looked
down at her shoes. They werent gray, like hed thought, but more of an off-white color. He
turned his attention back to her face and swallowed nervously.
He took a step closer.
J-Julia. Why are you here?
She wore an icy expression that melted only slightly when she spoke. Isnt it obvious?
Im waiting for a train.
The man sighed. Yes, I see. But . . . why? Where are you going?
I dont see how thats any of your business, Tom, she replied curtly. A girl can buy a
train ticket if she wants to.
Tom paused for a moment, not knowing how to respond. When will you be back?
I dont see how thats any of your business, either. He held her steady gaze and then
blinked, hard, attempting to overcome his emotions in order to fashion a coherent response.
Feeling like he was being torn in two, the man quickly abandoned his composure.
Tell me, he begged her. Please. Is it me? Did I do something? Can I do anything to
make you stay? Anything?
A faint train whistle sounded in the distance, but in Toms mind,the noise was piercing.
Julia! Please! Her eyes wouldnt stray from the direction of the noise. Julia!
Her answer was silence, filled by the bustle of travellers and Big Bens song ringing out.
12:15. Within the minute, Julias train pulled into the station and an exodus of travellers wearing
every color moved quickly towards the platform.
She picked up her bag and started to follow the migration to the doors of the passenger
car. She was almost there by the time Tom caught up with her.

Julia, he started, his voice quavering. Please tell me what is going on. Ill help you,
whatever it is, I promise. Ill do anything, Julia. Anything. Julia, darling, please?
She looked up at him, her expression softer and far more vulnerable. She blinked the
dampness out of her eyes. I-I cant. Im sorry.
She turned away and left him, limp, in the oncoming parade of people waiting to board
the train. He saw her slip into the crowd and stood on his toes, scanning the masses. He didnt
catch so much as a glimpse of her sky blue dress. She must already be on the train, Tom
reasoned. He considered getting on to try and find her, but the doors were shut before he could
make up his mind. He looked around, lost and confused, without a clue as to what to do next. He
found himself in the middle of the platform as he watched Julia and the train that carried her get
farther and farther out of his grasp, and he stood there, his neck craned and arm extended out to
reach her, until the noise of the engine faded away and he knew that she was gone.
Toms arm dropped to his side. Exhausted and overwhelmed, he no longer felt like
standing up straight. His shoulders slumped backwards until they hit something hard and he was
forced away from Julia and back into reality.
Toms back ached a little where his shoulders had slammed into his living room couch.
He refocused his attention to the clock hanging from the wall, the tiny seconds hand still
counting.
12:16:36. Tick.
12:16:37. Tock.
12:16:38. Tick.
12:16:39. Tock.

He sighed, almost inaudibly, and looked down at his withered hands. His eyes crept over
to the cushion next to him on the couch. It was empty.
Tom blinked, and a lone tear rolled out of his blue eyes and down his leathery cheek.
It was no longer 1959.
But she was still gone.

Twelve Strokes
Second Draft

The old mans blue eyes stared, unblinking, at the clock mounted on his living room wall.
Its rusty bronze pendulum swung back and forth as a soft cadence counted each passing second.
11:59:56. Tick.
11:59:57. Tock.
11:59:58. Tick.
11:59:59. Tock.

12:00:00. The man made no movement as the old clock croaked out a tune that must have
once resembled Westminster Chimes. As the twelve feeble strokes that followed reverberated off
the walls of his brain, the man was absorbed into the past. Here, the fuller, sweeter tune of a
much larger clock replaced the rusty groaning coming from his living room.
The last chime rang out loud and strong for several seconds before fading to a whisper.
He was on a train platform in London, and she was there.
He could see her through the thick stream of comers and goers, standing by the ticket
booth. She was holding a red leather suitcase that somehow made her porcelain skin even paler.
The scarlet-clad official selling tickets said something and she responded by setting the bag at
her feet and reaching inside of her jacket to produce a small piece of paper. The man was too far
away to see what it was, but he already knew.
SINGLE TICKET
June 15, 1959
Departing from Pond Street Station, 12:15 p.m.
Arriving
Arriving where? When? He needed to know. He needed to talk to her, to find out where
she was going. To find out why she was leaving.
Leaving me, he thought, and he wilted, his head drooping like the petals of a dying
flower. The squeak of some strangers luggage cart pulled the man back into the present. He
looked up in time to see her pick up her suitcase and walk away from the ticket booth and
towards the platform to wait for her train. A new resolve blossomed within him, and he organized
his thoughts, straightened his back, and was about to step towards her when he suddenly reverted
to his former state.

This time, he told himself, I will remember every detail. The man stood on the platform
for several minutes, transfixed. He paid close attention to her dress, which fluttered a little with
every passing breeze. He realized that it was the same color as that days sky, and smiled. He
watched as her dark curls tangled in the wind, and laughed a kind of sad laugh as she tried to fix
them, patting them down only to have them fly back up again. Every little while, the woman
would turn her head in his direction, looking for her train. The mans heart sunk as her dark eyes
saw straight past him.
He examined the faded grey of her shoes and took note of the way that she squeezed her
eyes shut during strong gusts of wind. He saw a silver charm bracelet on her right arm, thin like
spiders silk, and absolutely beautiful. He thought he could make out a small sun hanging from it,
and a little heart, and a music note, and
He became sick to his stomach when he heard a small child blowing into a kazoo. Hed
heard that noise before, hed been here a thousand times. The man looked at the clock on the
wall, although he didnt need to. 12:09, it would read. Time was running out. He had only until
12:15, when the train came. Came and left, he thought. But not with her on it. He wouldnt let
that happen. Not again.
Once again, the man squared his shoulders. His breathing was shallow. His legs shook,
but he took a step forward. He swallowed. Another step. Soon, he was close to her, so close that
he could see the large red stamp on her ticket.
ONE WAY
He stopped moving. She didnt want him here. Hed known that all along. He should
leave. He would leave. He would walk away, and let her have her peace, give her the space she
wanted . . .

But this was the first time hed made it this far. This time hed reach her. This time hed
talk to her, this time hed make her stay. A swell of courage overtook him until his stare was
drawn back to her ticket. In that red mark, the man saw a vision of broken hearts and bloodshot
eyes. It was terrible, he knew he had to stop it, but in that moment that was all he knew. To go, he
thought to himself as he moved his gaze from the ticket to the woman holding it, or to stay?
His decision was made for him when her head turned towards him. Her eyes met his with
the same look of dismay hed seen so many times before. He gulped, but couldnt make himself
swallow. He exhaled, long and quiet, their gazes never parting. The man picked up his foot to
take a step forward, and her head snapped away. She started walking in the opposite direction,
and his foot dropped back to the ground like a heavy stone. His heart sank to his toes.
She stopped walking and alternated between watching for the train and glancing at him
with obvious discomfort until another woman, this one with straight blonde hair, greeted her. The
two embraced. Probably old friends, the man thought. The idea was sweet. He would have
smiled if the little time hed had wasnt trickling away faster than he could grasp it. He had to
bring her home. He had to save her. Hed do it. This was the time. He knew it, he just knew it . . .
He reached her just as the second woman was retiring. She saw him coming and looked
down at her shoes. They werent gray, like hed thought, but more of an off-white color. He
turned his attention back to her face and swallowed nervously.
He took a step closer.
J-Julia. Why are you here?
She wore an icy expression that melted only slightly when she spoke. Isnt it obvious?
Im waiting for a train.
The man sighed. Yes, I see. But . . . why? Where are you going?

I dont see how thats any of your business, Tom, she replied curtly. A girl can buy a
train ticket if she wants to.
Tom paused for a moment, not knowing how to respond. When will you be back?
I dont see how thats any of your business, either. He held her steady gaze.
Tell me, he begged her. Please. Is it me? Did I do something? Can I do anything to
make you stay?
A faint train whistle sounded in the distance, but in Toms mind, it was piercing.
Julia! Please! Her eyes wouldnt stray from the direction of the noise. Julia!
Her answer was silence, filled by the bustle of travellers and Big Bens song ringing out.
12:15. Within the minute, Julias train pulled into the station and an exodus of travellers wearing
every color moved quickly towards the platform.
She picked up her bag and started to follow the migration to the doors of the passenger
car. She was almost there by the time Tom caught up with her.
Julia, he started, his voice quavering. Please tell me what is going on. Ill help you,
whatever it is, I promise. Julia, darling, please?
She looked up at him, her expression softer and far more vulnerable. She blinked the
dampness out of her eyes. I-I cant. Im sorry.
She turned away and left him, limp, in the oncoming parade of people waiting to board
the train. He saw her slip into the crowd and stood on his toes, scanning the masses. He didnt
catch so much as a glimpse of her sky blue dress. She must already be on the train. He
considered getting on to try and find her, but the doors were shut before he could form a coherent
plan. He looked around, lost and confused, without a clue as to what to do next. He found
himself in the middle of the platform as he watched Julia and the train that carried her get farther

and farther out of his grasp, and he stood there, his neck craned and arm extended out to reach
her, until the noise of the engine faded away and he knew that she was gone.
Toms arm dropped to his side. Exhausted and overwhelmed, he no longer felt like
standing up straight. His shoulders slumped backwards until they hit something hard and he was
forced away from Julia and back into reality.
Toms back ached a little where his shoulders had slammed into his living room couch.
He refocused his attention to the clock hanging from the wall, the tiny seconds hand still
counting.
12:16:36. Tick.
12:16:37. Tock.
12:16:38. Tick.
12:16:39. Tock.
He sighed, almost inaudibly, and looked down at his withered hands. His eyes crept over
to the cushion next to him on the couch. It was empty.
Tom blinked, and a lone tear rolled out of his blue eyes and down his leathery cheek.
It was no longer 1959.
But she was still gone.

Twelve Strokes
First Draft

The old mans blue eyes stared, unblinking, at the clock mounted on his living room wall.
Its rusty bronze pendulum swung back and forth as a soft ticking noise counted the passing
seconds.
11:59:56. Tick.
11:59:57. Tick.
11:59:58. Tick.
11:59:59. Tick.
12:00:00. The man made no movement as the old clock croaked out a tune that must have
once resembled Westminster Chimes. As the twelve feeble strokes that followed echoed around
in the innermost chambers of his brain, they were transformed into the fuller, sweeter sounds of a
much bigger clock.
The last chime rang out loud and strong for several seconds before fading to a whisper.
He was on a train platform in London, and she was there.

He could see her through the thick stream of comers and goers, standing by the ticket
booth. She was holding a red leather suitcase that somehow made her porcelain skin even paler.
The scarlet-clad official selling tickets said something and she responded by setting the bag at
her feet and reaching inside of her jacket to produce a small piece of paper. The man was too far
away to see what it was, but he already knew.
SINGLE TICKET
June 15, 1959
Departing from Pond Street Station, 12:15 p.m.
Arriving
Arriving where? When? He needed to know. He needed to talk to her, to find out what
was going. To find out why she was leaving.
Leaving me, he thought, and he wilted, his head drooping like the petals of a dying
flower. The squeak of some strangers luggage cart pulled the man back into the present. He
looked up in time to see her pick up her suitcase and walk away from the ticket booth and
towards the platform to wait for her train. A new resolve blossomed within him, and he organized
his thoughts, straightened his back, and was about to step towards her when he reverted to his
former state.
The man stood on the platform for several minutes, transfixed. This time, he told himself,
I will remember every detail. He paid close attention to her dress, which fluttered a little with
every passing breeze. He realized that it was the same color as that days sky. He smiled. He
watched as her dark curls tangled in the wind, and laughed a kind of sad laugh as she tried to fix
them, patting them down only to have them fly back up again. Every little while, the woman
would turn her head in his direction, looking for her train. The mans heart sunk as her dark eyes
looked straight past him.

He examined the faded grey of her shoes and took note of the way that she squeezed her
eyes shut during strong gusts of wind. He saw a silver charm bracelet on her right arm, thin like
spiders silk, and absolutely beautiful. He thought he could make out a small sun hanging from it,
and a little heart, and a music note, and
He became sick to his stomach when he heard a small child blowing into a kazoo. He
knew what that noise meant. He knew what came next. Hed been here a thousand times.
The man thought about it briefly and decided that he had about five minutes until her
train came. Came and left, he thought. But not with her on it. He wouldnt let that happen.
Once again, the man squared his shoulders. His breathing was shallow. His legs shook,
but he took a step forward. He swallowed. Another step. Soon, he was close to her, so close that
he could see the large red stamp on her ticket.
ONE WAY
He stopped moving. She didnt want him here. He should leave. He would leave. He
would walk away, and let her have her peace, give her the space she wanted . . .
But this was the first time hed made it this far. This time hed reach her. This time hed
talk to her, this time hed make her stay. A swell of courage overtook him until his stare was
drawn back to her ticket. In that red mark, the man saw a vision of broken hearts and bloodshot
eyes. It was terrible, he knew he had to stop it, but in that moment that was all he knew. To go, he
thought to himself as he moved his gaze from the ticket to the woman holding it, or to stay?
His decision was made for him when her head turned towards him. Her eyes met his. He
gulped, but couldnt make himself swallow. He exhaled, long and quiet, their gazes never
parting. The man picked up his foot to take a step forward, and her head snapped away. She

started walking in the opposite direction, and his foot dropped back to the ground like a heavy
stone. His heart sank to his toes.
She stopped walking and alternated between watching for the train and glancing at him
with obvious discomfort until another woman, this one with straight blonde hair, greeted her. The
two embraced. Probably old friends, the man thought, and smiled a little, though he wasnt quite
sure why. His smile fell as the sick feeling came back to his stomach. He was running out of
time. He had to bring her home. He had to save her. Hed do it. This was the time. He knew it, he
just knew it . . .
He reached her just as the second woman was retiring. She saw him coming and looked
down at her shoes. They werent gray, like hed thought, but more of an off-white color. He
turned his attention back to her face and swallowed nervously.
He took a step closer.
J-Julia. Why are you here?
She wore an icy expression that melted only slightly when she spoke. Isnt it obvious?
Im waiting for a train.
The man sighed. Yes, I see. But . . . why? Where are you going?
I dont see how thats any of your business, Tom, she replied curtly. A girl can buy a
train ticket if she wants to.
Tom paused for a moment, not knowing how to respond. When will you be back?
I dont see how thats any of your business, either. He held her steady gaze.
Tell me, he begged her. Please. Is it me? Did I do something? Can I do anything to
make you stay?
A train whistle sounded in the distance, faint but audible.

Julia! Please! Her eyes wouldnt stray from the direction of the noise. Julia!
Her answer was silence, filled by the bustle of travellers and Big Bens song ringing out.
12:15. Within the minute, Julias train pulled into the station and an exodus of travellers wearing
every color moved quickly towards the platform.
She picked up her bag and started to follow the migration to the doors of the passenger
car. She was almost there by the time Tom caught up with her.
Julia, he started, his voice quavering. Please tell me what is going on. Ill help you,
whatever it is, I promise. Julia, darling, please?
She looked up at him, her expression softer and far more vulnerable. She blinked the
dampness out of her eyes. I-I cant. Im sorry.
She turned away and left him, limp, in the oncoming parade of people waiting to board
the train. He looked around, but she wasnt there. She must already be on the train. He
considered getting on to try and find her, but the doors were shut before he could form a coherent
plan. He looked around, lost and confused, without a clue as to what to do next. He found
himself in the middle of the platform as he watched Julia and the train that carried her get farther
and farther out of his grasp, and he stood there, his neck craned and arm extended out to reach
her, until the noise of the engine faded away and he knew that she was gone.
Toms arm dropped to his side. Exhausted and overwhelmed, he no longer felt like
standing up straight. His shoulders slumped backwards until they hit something hard and he was
forced back into reality.
Toms back ached a little where his shoulders had slammed into his living room couch.
He refocused his attention to the clock hanging from the wall, the tiny seconds hand still
counting.

12:16:37. Tick.
12:16:38. Tick.
12:16:39. Tick.
He sighed, almost inaudibly, and looked down at his withered hands. His eyes crept over
to the cushion next to him on the couch. It was empty.
Tom blinked, and a lone tear rolled out of his blue eyes and down his leathery cheek.
It was no longer 1959, but she was still gone.

Twelve Strokes
To Climax

The old mans blue eyes stared, unblinking, at the clock mounted on his living room wall.
Its rusty bronze pendulum swung back and forth as a soft ticking noise counted the passing
seconds.
11:59:56. Tick.
11:59:57. Tick.
11:59:58. Tick.
11:59:59. Tick.
12:00:00. The man made no movement as the old clock croaked out a tune that must have
once resembled Westminster Chimes. As the twelve feeble strokes that followed echoed around
in the innermost chambers of his brain, they were transformed into the fuller, sweeter sounds of a
much bigger clock.
The last chime rang out loud and strong for several seconds before fading to a whisper.
He was on a train platform in London, and she was there.
He could see her through the thick stream of comers and goers, standing by the ticket
booth. She was holding a red leather suitcase that somehow made her porcelain skin even paler.
The scarlet-clad official selling tickets said something and she responded by setting the bag at
her feet and reaching inside of her jacket to produce a small piece of paper. The man was too far
away to see what it was, but he already knew.
SINGLE TICKET
June 15, 1959
Departing from Pond Street Station, 12:15 p.m.

Arriving
Arriving where? When? He needed to know. He needed to talk to her, to find out what
was going. To find out why she was leaving.
Leaving me, he thought, and he wilted, his head drooping like the petals of a dying
flower. The squeak of some strangers luggage cart pulled the man back into the present. He
looked up in time to see her pick up her suitcase and walk away from the ticket booth and
towards the platform to wait for her train. A new resolve blossomed within him, and he organized
his thoughts, straightened his back, and was about to step towards her when he reverted to his
former state.
The man stood on the platform for several minutes, transfixed. This time, he told himself,
I will remember every detail. He paid close attention to her dress, which fluttered a little with
every passing breeze. He realized that it was the same color as that days sky. He smiled. He
watched as her dark curls tangled in the wind, and laughed a kind of sad laugh as she tried to fix
them, patting them down only to have them fly back up again. Every little while, the woman
would turn her head in his direction, looking for her train. The mans heart sunk as her dark eyes
looked straight past him.
He examined the faded grey of her shoes and took note of the way that she squeezed her
eyes shut during strong gusts of wind. He saw a silver charm bracelet on her right arm, thin like
spiders silk, and absolutely beautiful. He thought he could make out a small sun hanging from it,
and a little heart, and a music note, and
He became sick to his stomach when he heard a small child blowing into a kazoo. He
knew what that noise meant. He knew what came next. Hed been here a thousand times.
The man thought about it briefly and decided that he had about five minutes until her
train came. Came and left, he thought. But not with her on it. He wouldnt let that happen.

Once again, the man squared his shoulders. His breathing was shallow. His legs shook,
but he took a step forward. He swallowed. Another step. Soon, he was close to her, so close that
he could see the large red stamp on her ticket. ONE WAY.
He stopped moving. She didnt want him here. He would leave. He should leave. He
should walk away, and let her have her peace, give her the space she wanted . . .
His decision was made for him when her head turned towards him. Her eyes met his. He
gulped, but couldnt make himself swallow. He exhaled, long and quiet, their gazes never
parting. The man picked up his foot to take a step forward, and her head snapped away. She
started walking in the opposite direction, and his foot dropped back to the ground like a heavy
stone. His heart sank to his toes.
She stopped walking and alternated between watching for the train and glancing at him
with obvious discomfort in her expression until another woman, this one with straight blonde
hair, greeted her. They hugged. They must be old friends, the man thought with a small smile,
until he began to panic. He was running out of time. He had to bring her home. He had to save
her. Hed do it. This was the time. He knew it, he just knew it . . .
He reached her just as the second woman was retiring. She saw him coming and looked
down at her shoes. They werent gray, like hed thought, but more of an off-white color. He
turned his attention back to her face and swallowed nervously.
He took a step closer.
J-Julia. Why are you here?
She wore an icy expression that melted only slightly when she spoke. Isnt it obvious?
Im waiting for a train.
The man sighed. Yes, I see. But . . . why? Where are you going?

I dont see how thats any of your business, Tom, she replied curtly. A girl can buy a
train ticket if she wants to.
Tom paused for a moment, not knowing how to respond. When will you be back?
I dont see how thats any of your business, either. He held her steady gaze.
Tell me, he begged her. Please. Is it me? Did I do something? Can I do anything to
make you stay?
A train whistle sounded in the distance, faint but audible.
Julia! Please! Her eyes wouldnt stray from the direction of the noise. Julia!
Her answer was silence. Within the minute, Julias train pulled into the station and an
exodus of travellers wearing every color moved quickly towards the train.
She picked up her bag and started to follow the migration to the doors of the passenger
car. She was almost there by the time Tom caught up with her.
Julia, he started, his voice nearly quavering. Please tell me what is going on. Ill help
you, whatever it is, I promise. Julia, darling, please?
She looked up at him, her expression softer and far more vulnerable. She blinked the
dampness out of her eyes. I-I cant. Im sorry.
She turned away and left him, limp, in the oncoming parade of people waiting to board
the train. He looked around, but she wasnt there. She must already be on the train. He
considered getting on to try and find her, but the doors were shut before he could form a coherent
plan. He looked around, lost and confused, without a clue as to what to do next. He found
himself in the middle of the platform as he watched Julia and the train that carried her get farther
and farther out of his reach, until they passed a bend and were gone.

The Clock
Hook

The old mans blue eyes stared, unblinking, at the clock mounted on his living room wall.
Its rusty bronze pendulum swung back and forth as a soft ticking noise counted the passing
seconds.
11:59:56. Tick.
11:59:57. Tick.

11:59:58. Tick.
11:59:59. Tick.
12:00:00. The man made no movement as the old clock wheezed out a tune that must
have once resembled Westminster Chimes. As the twelve feeble strokes that followed echoed
around in the innermost chambers of his brain, they were transformed into the fuller, sweeter
sounds of a much bigger clock.
The last chime rang out loud and strong for several seconds before fading to a whisper.
He was on a train platform in London, and she was there.