His Log Cabin

Reconciliation

He stands in the darkness, the cold, thick surrounding void that devours any form of heat. There is no noise in the chamber behind him, the building, silent in its smug darkness. The Man with the fissured chest breathes deep heaves of air in slow succession, eyes blank with confusion, staring at the door.

He looks down at the new weight that has appeared in his hands; from within them, the soft and broken sounds of the clock movement erupts into the silence encapsulating his log cabin. Its small painful skips and jolts are delicate against the sound of each of the Man's slowing breaths.

Transferring the small silver movement into his left hand, holding it lightly to protect it from further damage, he does not notice the fissure running into his chest, but instead focuses on his exit. The door, weathered and sturdy, has reclaimed its place upon the cabin's wall. Light cascades from under the door's crack into his cabin's strange chamber.

The Man reaches towards his escape, feeling the pleasant heat that radiates off the door's ovular iron knob. The movement within his hand continues its broken song, encoring him forward with a struggling, yet ecstatic chorus. He grabs the doorknob. It feels warm, calming, thawing the Man of any previous chills. He turns it, pushing the door open while walking through, revealing the same bright plateau landscape he left behind in entering his log cabin.

Standing in the doorway, the Man wets his lips, looking out at the warm, barren sections of tan coloured sand and the endless road of cracked pavement. He looks left, right, down the road that leads off beyond the horizon in both directions, watching for any glimpse of life. He finds none.

The Man shivers, the cold from the building behind him inching like a glacial arachnid up his spine; the reminded shock of that feeling widens his eyes as he tenses, growing taller. A newfound determination encourages his walk through the log cabin's doorway and out onto the desert's flat expanse.

The door slides shut with a decaying creak behind him in a meek, decrepit goodbye; the clock movement chimes softly in good riddance. A distance enough away from the building for him to observe it fully, the Man turns to face the space where his log cabin with its dust-stained windows and wood panel door sat.

Instead of being confronted with his cabin in the sand, the Man sees that the building has been replaced with the wreckage of festered remnants of wood, both planks and the decaying matter of what once were logs.

The rubble sits up against broken beams at odd slants, littering across the sand where his cabin once was. Amidst the pilings of debris, the Man sees the minuscule skitterings of life, ducking in and out of the sunlight and digging deeper into the festering timber. A familiar rustling sound floats through the clear sky above, drawing the Man's attention as he lifts his head.

The Raven gives a quick flap of its wings, floating down in front of the Man, landing confidently upon one of the more upright angled logs. It cocks its head at the Man, peering at him with its dot-like eyes. The Man watches the corvid incline its head down to the beam it perches on, pecking at an insect with its thick hooked beak.

Leaning back up, the Raven regains its focus on the Man with a crow, voicing its irritation with a bob of it's head. The small silver movement in the Man's hand jolts, forcing his attention to it. He frowns at the piece, bringing it closer to his face, attempting to discern the cause of its upset. The sound of crumbling lumber attends his attention faster, as he looks up to see the log that the Raven had been sitting on tumble into the decaying pile, erupting a cloud of dead grime into the otherwise unwavering environment.

The Raven cries it's surprise, hastily flapping its loud wings, flying away behind the Man, squawking and crowing fumes of upset curses. He follows the sound of the irritated bird flying behind him, listening to the noise of flight become replaced by the scratching of the Raven's talons on its new perch.

The Man turns around to face the other section of plateaued land and find where the Raven now sits.

He is  confronted with the square shape of a building. A building that appears old, yet well kept; a building that appears worn with time yet still in use. It has beige cement walls that have cracked and peeled along its foundation in the sand, rectangular artisan windows that have been crafted opaque with blues and reds, and a dark oaken door with a brass handle upon its left side.

A handcrafted sign hangs on iron pegs above the building's door. It reads 'The Horologist.' A warm light emits from the gaps surrounding the door, rays traceable in the building's shadow cast down in front of the Man.

He looks at the movement in his upturned palm. Within the Man's hand, the small silver timepiece attempts to start up in an ecstatic song, painfully skipping a broken tune. The Raven crows from up on the building's edge, beckoning the Man with the fissured chest closer to the building, whilst cocking its head in a mechanical manner.