MargenI took my grandmother's wall clock in to be mended; it had been stopped at ten past four since the exact small hour in which she died. A good clock, German, the kind that doesn't stop for no reason.
The clockmaker, a very old man there was in the neighbourhood, opened the back with two trembling fingers. He looked inside for a long time. Then he went pale, closed it carefully and handed it back without charging me anything.
“It isn't broken,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “It's waiting.”
I asked him waiting for what. He wouldn't tell me. He hurried me to the door, and only when I was already in the street, the clock under my arm, did I hear him murmur behind me: “The mechanism is intact. But the hands no longer mark the hour that was. They mark the one still to come. Take care of yourself at ten past four.”