The clock ticked slowly, cogs turning and clicking softly, gracefully. Smooth as silk, she drifted between the golden circles, tending to the rusted as a nurse would care for the injured. Sweetly, she whispered to them, sharing unknown secrets and silent jokes.
The world's clock ticked slowly; its mistress gently nurturing it.
Her life was complete, consumed with thoughts of the clock, of the gears, of the smallest mechanics; day after day, year after year, millennia after millennia, thinking of the clock. Her mind was so replete with these that it had no time for anything else. It was for this purpose that she was created, facilitating the workings of the clock, allowing it to run smoothly.
Whirring, clicking, ticking-her meaning, her existence.
The day came when she no longer heard the clock's whisperings, its tinkling laugh, its sincere love. It was only inevitable, she was a human made of light and earth, how could such an affair continue?
For the first time, she was cold. Nothing left but the straightforward whirring of time, she lifted her eyes to the heavens.
Suddenly, warmth: a noise that clashed with the usual, methodical sounds. When she looked up, what remained was not her clock, but a crimson sky.