There exists a broken clock in a broken house. It doesn’t tick and it doesn’t tock. Its pendulum makes bitter attempts to swing above a ragged floor, uneven and marred by patches of mold and hoary footprints.
The wind blows through the jagged edges of former windows, then flutters along the barely-hinged remnant of a door, causing it to slam against its former self.
The cuckoo bird bursts forward. It screams.
— Bastian Espada