The old man sat by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass like tears on a weathered face. His gnarled hands, once strong enough to build houses and mend broken things, now trembled as they held the faded photograph of his late wife, Sarah.
"Forty years," he whispered to the empty room, his voice barely audible above the storm outside. The house, once filled with laughter and the patter of children's feet, now echoed with only the sound of his own breathing and the relentless drumming of rain on the roof.
On the mantelpiece, a clock ticked steadily, marking time that seemed both endless and too short. He remembered when Sarah would scold him for watching that clock during dinner, saying time moved fast enough without his help. Now he wished he could slow it down, make each remaining moment last forever.
The photograph slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the floor like a fallen leaf. As he bent to retrieve it, he noticed a letter on the table—one he'd written but never sent, addressed to the children who had grown up and moved away, too busy with their own lives to visit.