It was the last of its kind in the small town on the border.

Mahogany.

Glossy and smooth in places, but mostly worn down from years of handling, it had been passed down from generation to generation. A relic almost. It had become a much-coveted item in the family. Yet, no one really knew how much hard work it was taking care of it until it was living with them. It was a sign of importance, of trust.

It had collected dust in a few libraries and bleached by the sun in some living rooms.

The hands sometimes stuck, especially in the summer when the dials swelled up. It would read 12 until someone walked by and realized it was actually 4. Opening up its glass face, the passerby would adjust the time before walking away. What everyone forgot to notice was that the clock marked the time that stood still. It was the only reminder of things past and present at the same time.

The black, woven-like hands got confused — sometimes exchanging places where the big one would point out the hours and the small one the minutes confusing the young children learning how to tell time. But the tic-tic-ticking was always present. The cuckoo no longer sang, instead it limped out mechanically at every hour. It reminded everyone in the house of their own lives. No longer caring about what their purpose was, their singing voices long quieted by the years etched on their bodies.

It had seen better days, better years, even better hours, but it was still worth a fortune.

Amidst decay and decline, the clock stood proudly at the entrance of the house, a greeting to all who walked through the sprawling and decrepit doors.

It was a reminder of what it once was.