The Graveyard of Clocks

People really remembered when Edgar stopped speaking. He simply decided one day that words had worn themselves out stretched too thin by apologies never meant, promises never kept, and smiles too sharp to trust. So, Edgar turned silent.

But that wasn’t what made Edgar famous.

What made Edgar unforgettable was what he did with time.

It began on a rainy Wednesday when Mrs. Mallow spotted him in the cemetery with a shovel and a black bag. Naturally, she assumed he was mourning. But curiosity, a force stronger than respect, pulled her closer and what she saw unsettled her. Inside that black bag was not a keepsake or flowers. It was a clock.

A large, round, ticking wall clock.

She watched, frozen under her umbrella, as Edgar placed it gently in the earth and buried it.

By the end of the month, Edgar had buried seventeen clocks wristwatches, kitchen timers, pocket watches, even cuckoos. Some ticking, some silent. Always with the same quiet ceremony: a hole, a pause, a covering of dirt. No headstone. No explanation. Some say he even whispered something each time before he covered them, though no one ever got close enough to hear.

The town, naturally, began to talk.

Some believed it was art. Others called it madness. The local pastor declared it sacrilege. Children followed him at a distance, whispering legends. “They say he’s burying time so he can live forever.” “No,” another child would argue, “He’s trapping it. So it can’t take anyone else.”

But no one dared confront Edgar. His silence was too heavy, too haunted.

That winter, time behaved strangely in Hartswell. Clocks stopped randomly. Phones glitched. Alarms failed. Days felt shorter, nights longer. People felt... displaced. As if time no longer flowed it throbbed. Even the weather didn’t seem to follow the rules. Snow came too early and stayed too long. Flowers bloomed in December. Dogs barked at empty space.

And then came the letter.

It was found taped to the church door one frozen morning, written in tight cursive:

“I buried the clocks because they lied to me. They told me there was time.
Time to say goodbye.
Time to forgive.
Time to fix things.
But time isn’t gentle. It doesn’t knock.
It devours. It dissolves. It disappears.
My daughter died while I was checking the time.
My wife left while I was waiting for the right time.
I buried the clocks because they never cared.
And now I’m burying what’s left of me.”

No one knew when Edgar left. His house stood empty, the fireplace still warm, his shovel leaning against the door. On the mantle sat a single clock the last one its hands spinning uncontrollably in reverse.

The town grew quiet after that. People started walking slower. Looking longer into each other's eyes. Children stopped asking what time is it and started asking what do we do with the time we have?

Mrs. Mallow, who once followed Edgar in secret, placed flowers near the last known buried clock. A young boy placed his wristwatch beside it. "So he knows we're listening," he said.

Some say Edgar is still alive, living in a cabin beyond the woods where time dares not enter. Others believe he became part of the soil, bones tangled in roots, heartbeat in sync with the buried clocks, finally at peace in a place where nothing ticks.

But occasionally only on overcast afternoons someone walking past the cemetery swears they hear a muffled ticking beneath their feet. Not threatening. Not urgent. Just a soft reminder.

That time, like love, was never meant to be measured only felt.

Have you ever seen someone who wastes time? In fact, this story has a very deep meaning. If you think about it and give it a good thought, it will definitely be understood.

Thank you very much for riding!❤️