The Antique Clock

The cobbled streets felt cold and foreign underneath Edgar’s well-polished shoes. Somehow they didn’t belong here, or he didn’t. The smell of manure mixed with the acrid smoke that seems to be entwined with city life singed his nostrils. Searching through the darkness, he found the fresh steaming pile that had been left in a carriage’s wake. Curious, for a carriage to be out this late. Though such notions could be attributed to be, should I be seen. With this thought, he shuffled into the shadows, not that there was any light to cast such hiding places. A gloomy light leaked from the antique clock high above the town, but not enough to see by. Nevertheless, he continued moving in what would seem to be a highly suspicious form – tentative footsteps, paranoid surveying of his surroundings. Dark houses rose up in all directions, without so much as a candle on a windowsill to indicate life within. Edgar was pleased with his choice of time, although his choice of activity was not strictly illegal. It was merely a mission of principal and a way to improve his self-worth after its recent decline.

Although his current predicament would seem to indicate otherwise, Edgar was a rather respectable fellow. He came from a wealthy family who put value in morality rather than materials, quite opposite to the rest of the aristocracy they found themselves associating with. For, while they were conscientious, hard-working, self-funded people, breaking the class system was simply detrimental for future prospects in business and relationships.

The clock chimed seven melancholy gongs, signaling to the town that it was only 7pm so the folk should be toasting a supper in their homes. Then why the darkness? Truthfully, it was this strange phenomenon that Edgar’s mission revolved around and the reason for his consciousness at this weary hour.