The house was dark when Sam finally came in from the fields, but he could hear his grandmother’s oak kitchen clock ticking through the blackness.
He cursed himself for not leaving an oil lamp beside the front door, but he knew there was always one next to the clock.
“A man’s gotta know what time it is!” Granny had always told him.
Sam smiled at the memory and felt his way across the front room and into the back area, near the stove. Despite taking great care as he approached the dry sink where the clock stood, he bumped into it hard with his waist.
The tick-tock hiccupped, and the few items on the sink surface made wobbling noises as they rocked back and forth. Sam grunted and jutted his hands out to steady the clock.
Nothing fell, but he heard a slight rustle in the air and then the light kiss of paper settling against wood.
He frowned in the darkness, trying to imagine what had made that noise, and then shrugged. He felt his way to the right of the clock, found the looped glass handle of the oil lamp with one hand and the stack of matches with the other.
He struck one against the gnarled wooden side of the upright cabinet next to the dry sink and studied the lamp for a moment in the glow. Then he removed the lamp’s chimney, adjusted the wick, and lit it. When he was sure the lamp would stay lit, he slid the chimney back in place.
The clock dinged in greeting, and Sam splashed light over its aged white face. It was 7:30 and already pitch black. Dark for an early April evening, and Sam was more than ready for some longer days.
He took a step to the left, intending to grab a hunk of bread for his supper when his foot slid a couple of inches.
He had forgotten about the paper.
He squatted down, holding the lamp upright so as not to spill the oil. There on the floor was a rectangular sheet of paper like none he’d ever seen before — stark white, twice the size (or more!) of the pages in a book, and with a handwritten note:
Don’t forget to set the clock ahead. –Sam
Sam had only written his name a few times in his life, but this was definitely his own signature.
He squinted at the paper for a few seconds, each one punctuated by the tick of the clock, seeming to grow louder with each tock.
Finally, Sam shrugged and stood up. He shone the light on his grandmother’s clock, opened the little glass door, and gently nudged the minute hand forward until the gears clicked at eight o’clock.
The chimes began …
One
A soft, staticky pop sounded behind Sam.
Two
A light rumbling at the front of the house.
Three
A hum from the loft, where he slept.
Four
The house sighed gently, as if breathing.
Five
The lamp felt strange in his left hand.
Six
Something buzzed on the table in front of him.
Seven
The kitchen flooded with light.
Eight
Sam yawned and looked at his empty left hand, extended as if it were holding something.
He shrugged again and closed the glass door on the front of the antique clock.
His phone buzzed again, and he picked it up.
In the living room, voices blared from the television.
Light spilled down the stairs to his left. He needed to adjust that timer.
It had been a long day, and Sam needed some down time. He grabbed a protein bar from the counter and walked toward the TV as he punched in the security code on his phone.
He plopped down on the couch to read the reminder on the screen:
Set a reminder to turn the clocks back in the fall.
Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. He tossed the phone across the room, where it landed on the cushion of an overstuffed chair.
He could worry about clocks later. After all, fall was still months away.