Tick tock.

The grandfather clock in his sitting room chimes on, almost a primal force in this dedication to its one duty- Counting the passage of time. The old man sits in his chair at the backyard, smoking a pipe. The smoke curls up and forms like a halo around his head.

He clears his throat. Flips a page on the newspaper in his hand. Sighing heavily, he settles deeper into his seat. 
Tick tock. Somehow audible even from the backyard. Tick tock.

A sleek car purrs into the driveway. The dust from its arrival has not even began to settle when the car door flies open. A young man steps out of the car and takes a deep whiff of the dry cold harmattan air. He stretches and there is an audible pop as bones and muscles take their rightful places. It was quite a journey, you see. He smiles, rearranges the expensive suit he has on. Deep breath.

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