The Clock
written by: Mohamed El Houssaini
It was winter, the season of bitter winds and seductive sleep. In the village of gray spirits and hollow laughter, dawn crept in quietly. The villagers wore tired smiles, not of joy, but of resignation. They had long ceased to greet the rain with gladness. Here, water was no gift, it battered the roofs of fragile wooden homes and carved deeper lines in already worn faces. This place, whispered about as the village of old men, bore witness to lives that had eluded the embrace of time, not for lack of desire, but for lack of understanding.
In the dim hush of six o’clock, while dew still clung like silken ghosts to tulips and trees, the wretched Salvador stirred from sleep. His wife, still resting in the warmth of their modest bed, lay wrapped in thin blankets, a portrait of gentle endurance. Salvador gazed at her with a tenderness carved from years of shared silence and quiet battles. Around their room, tulips bloomed, flowers he had plucked from earth, and a burden to soften the corners of their life. Salvador was a miner, one of the forgotten. The mines were the underworld of the wretched, those abandoned by fortune and remembered only by dust.
His wife awoke softly, her steps muffled by care, and greeted him with a kiss that held years inside it. “My dear Salvador,” she began with careful cheer, “I have some news today.” Salvador, adjusting the buttons on his coat, nodded. “I have no objection to hearing from you, my lady,” he said with his usual warmth. “I’ve heard that a lady named Susan at the royal palace has dismissed her maids. They were careless with her children. I think, I believe, it’s a good chance for me to find work.”
“A job!” Salvador’s voice cracked, caught somewhere between disbelief and hurt. She met his eyes gently. “I see what the mine does to you. Every day. I think it’s my turn to lift part of that weight.” He laughed, not with joy, but with the bewilderment of a man caught in his own shadows. His beloved stood silent, confused, like one lost in the labyrinth of the Minotaur. Then came his reply, almost as a challenge, “Pain? What pain are you speaking of? You’ve never set foot in the mine.”
“A mine is a mine,” she said, her voice steeled with quiet fire. “Some griefs need not be touched to be understood. Some fatigue travels through the soul, not just the skin.” He paused, her words striking deeper than any hammer he’d wielded underground. “My dear,” she added softly, “your love warms me every day. But even warmth tires. Even the strongest heart needs a hand.” In that moment, Salvador realized the wealth he held, not in gold, but in her. He simply said, “What brings you comfort, brings me peace.”
With the storm swelling outside and love echoing within, Salvador set out. Wind howled, rain lashed, and fog swallowed the path before him. He walked into the chaos, the mine still calling. The storm blinded him, deafened him. Raindrops struck like needles, and every step was an act of will. In that storm, time stood still, mocking him for all he had wasted in youth. He thought, had I held time more tightly, perhaps I’d not be walking into this storm now.
Out of nowhere, a car pulled up. From within, a voice called out. “Get in.” The driver was an old man with a white beard, a stranger yet hauntingly familiar. His name, too, was Salvador. But this one bore no scars from mines, no tremble in his voice. His life had unfolded earlier, and now, time repaid him gently. Warm, dry, and unburdened, he had no mine to greet him. The wretched Salvador, shivering, managed only to whisper, “The mine… take me to the mine.” And so, the fortunate Salvador did.
At the mine, damp walls swallowed all sound but labor. Salvador, having barely rested, began his day. His strength betrayed him, a heavy rock slipped from his grasp. Laughter echoed behind him. It was Alex, a boy of twenty, full of bravado and untouched by time’s cruelty. “You’re lucky,” Salvador said, drawing near, his voice like wind rustling dead leaves. “Your flowers have only begun to bloom. They still have time. But don’t waste it. Time never waits. Time moves on.” The boy shrugged off the words, but they lingered in the air like coal dust. Salvador had told that same truth many times, as though speaking it aloud might someday release him from the mine.
At day’s end, Salvador returned to his home, to the one whose presence softened every ache. She met him at the door, her hands warm with tea, her eyes full of silent understanding. That night, lying beside her, he stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. He saw the faces again, the boy and the old man. Were they both him? One at the start, one at the end, and he, the Salvador in the middle, still digging, still hoping. In this life, he thought, if one must be trapped in a mine, he must pray for a voice like hers, a love like hers, to reach down and remind him he is not alone.
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