[i]Tick. Tock. Tick.[/i] The ornate mahogany clock rests against the right hand wall. Behind dusted glass, ancient mechanisms shudder across a field of white. Time overlooks the great cedar desk covered in papers covered in time. Some are old, some are new, some are places between the range and outside it. [i]Tick. Tock. Tick.[/i] Weathered hands shuffle weathered papers, moving them in droves across the endless expanse of wood. Sumus rearranges papyrus that has not been touched in centuries, putting them to rest for ages more. He sets papers to weigh down paper-weights that weigh down weighing papers. Quills that write, that will write, that have written—these go in unpredictable myriad among the documents. [i]Tick. Tock. Tick.[/i] Endless, forgettable amounts of papers spill over the edge of their world of cedar and into the roaring hearth opposite the keeper’s place of sitting. The flames quell and grow and roar and whisper as paper burns slowly, quickly, slowly. Harsh lights dance frantically across the stone interior of the fireplace, seeking release and finding only stone upon stone. Ashes from the paper fall upward, carried by heat to the hole in the world at the top of the chimney. They escape. [i]Tick. Tock. Tick. [/i] Sumus reaches across the breadth of the great cedar desk and acquires a new document—small, geometrical, and thick with contents. The telltale scent of the letter’s wax seal lingers on the air. Time escapes its paper prison as the seal is broken. Time lifts papers, tightly packed, from the letter, into the air and in all directions. Most of them will be lost to the endless cedar. Some may make it to the roaring flames. Shaking hands draw the last little piece of time out of the letter, its papyrus thin and stiff. Sumus’s chest tightens as he flips the item over and gazes upon its lettering. At the top, simultaneously of every language ever written, is a signature—[i]Erimus[/i]. Sumus’s eyes fall down the unending length of tiny paper, to the body text. It reads, [i]Tick. Tock. Tick.[/i] A dry, weak groan breaks his bated breath. “Why must you torture me so?” Only Erimus knows how heavily the departure of Erāmus weighs on Sumus. He sighs and folds the leaflet seven-and-a-half times in half. Eons later, he sets the folded piece of time down and looks at the time. “It is now,” he studies. “Not long at all before it is then.” Then soon comes and goes, and now is gone and it is now... [i]Tick. Tock. Tick.[/i] Sumus presses his hands to his temples, shutting his eyes tightly against the headache. He removes his spectacles, just for a merciful moment, and stares beyond the room. He looks back, where the mirror lies, and behind it sees Erāmus. Sumus fears to turn away lest his periphery catch the angle of the flames—lest his eyes meet Erimus. [i]Tick. Tock. Tick.[/i] A tear rolls down his cheek as Sumus replaces his spectacles. For ages and for an instant his eyes roam the great desk, until they set upon a paper-weight, stylized like a sundial. His breath catches once more, and again his hands shake. Sumus reaches for the lead weight, feels his breath end as his fingers encircle it. He looks at the clock, ticking away. His arm raises, weight in hand, and snaps forward. The paper-weight sails across the finite distance of infinite things, bound for the clock. Erimus watches, always watches. Lead breaks swiftly through glass before striking the mechanisms. They soon stop, grinding to a halt for the final time. [i]Tick. Tock. Tick.[/i]