Five O’Clock
At five o’clock, my grandparents’ ceramic clock chimed five times, faintly, with long, regular pauses between each.
I inherited the clock after both had passed away. In the twenty-something years I’ve owned it, I’ve never once wound it. The hands have sat motionless at four-thirtyish this whole time.
Even if I wanted to wind it, I couldn’t. I lost the key and pendulum during a move ten years ago. I don’t have an explanation at hand, but it wasn’t my imagination.
At the first chime, I recognized the sound from my childhood and wandered over to see what was going on. Sure enough, the clock kept chiming the hour in front of me.
Unusual.