This clock. This Death clock. Stopped upon the death of Henry Troyer, the great uncle of the woman I bought it from and never re-started, as it had been kept in an attic in Pennsylvania, transported across the country and stored in a shed for the past 108 years. This clock had broken springs when I bought it and made nary a peep on the rough truck ride home. Upon setting down in the store it chimed three times. Later it Chimed again, also three times. Later still under the eyes of two customers it chimed 13 times. It has since lived my workshop where I’ve replaced the springs and left them slack. It has chimed randomly many times. Finally, three nights ago as I worked on an urn, sitting at the workbench next to the clock, over the sound of my headphones I heard distinctly a very human shout from the clock. All the hair on my body stood up, I got very, very cold and pulled the headphones from my ears and stared down the last physical representation of Henry Troyer in this life. What does it mean? Can some vestige of Mr. Troyer be attached to this beloved instrument of timekeeping? Can its being brought out of storage and kept among people who live and breathe have broken the solitude of this monument to eternal rest? The heart no longer beats, the tick and the tock have left the clock. But still the chimes ring to remind that the heart of a man has not gone, that forever the people and the things he touched in his life live on and that Henry Troyer is like all of us, forever in memory and in the still beating hearts on this earth.