Father Time was lonely even when he was a boy at seven at school. He had been watching over the world since the beginning of time, but he had no one to share his experiences with. He had seen empires rise and fall, civilizations flourish and decay, wars and peace, love and hate, joy and sorrow. He had seen it all, but he felt nothing. Now he is 600 years old
He tried to find companionship in the creatures of the world, but they were too fleeting for him. They lived and died in the blink of an eye, and he could not relate to their struggles and passions. He tried to find solace in the stars, but they were too distant and cold. They shone with a steady light, but they did not care about him or the world.
He found his only comfort in the clocks. He loved the clocks, for they were the only things that understood him. They measured the passage of time, just like he did. They ticked and tocked, just like his heart. They were his creations, his children, his friends.
He collected all kinds of clocks, from the simplest sundials to the most complex chronometers. He filled his palace with them, and he tended to them with care. He adjusted their gears, oiled their springs, polished their faces. He listened to their melodies, their chimes, their alarms. He gave them names, and he talked to them.
He was especially fond of one clock, a grandfather clock that he had made himself. He called it Grandpa, and he placed it in the center of his throne room. It was his masterpiece, his pride and joy. It had a wooden case, carved with intricate patterns and symbols. It had a brass pendulum, swinging with a steady rhythm. It had a silver face, with roman numerals and hands. It had a glass door, through which he could see the inner workings of the clock. It had a musical mechanism, that played a different tune every hour. It was the most beautiful clock he had ever seen, and he loved it more than anything.
He spent most of his time with Grandpa, sitting on his throne and watching the clock. He admired its craftsmanship, its precision, its harmony. He enjoyed its music, its melodies, its harmonies. He felt a connection with the clock, a bond that transcended time.
He often wondered if Grandpa felt the same way about him. He hoped that the clock could sense his presence, his touch, his voice. He wished that the clock could respond to him, to smile, to nod, to speak. He dreamed that the clock could love him back, as he loved it.
But he knew that it was impossible. He knew that Grandpa was just a clock, a machine, a thing. He knew that Grandpa had no feelings, no thoughts, no soul. He knew that Grandpa could not love him, as he loved it.
He knew that he was alone.