Gilded Hour

Tic. Tok. The clock monotoned. A weight of dissonance hung over the stale-grey, metal
office. Its stained-white walls drained any enthusiasm for life. A drained, desiring breath escaped a young woman’s once-adventurous, now-chapped lips. Her lustreless eyes drifted around the bare room, falling onto a portrait teeming with magic. Her lip twitched up as a cottage warmth rekindled her dormant heart.

A waning sun dipping over the edge of an untouched land, illuminated a soft stretch of
cloud. Its hazy puffs crept along the forest floor and rested on the bowing emerald
grass—preparing a glistening, preemptive dew for morning’s rise. Barely a whisper of a breeze rustled through the dozing leaves. A hushed lullaby. Sweeping away her burdens into the distant bright sky. Golden-brown trees gleamed in the sky’s drowsy glory, tenderising the harsh bark. The wash of cinnamon and turmeric mellowed the vibrant sky as it slowly nestled the forest into a safe sleep. Quiet tweeting of the gentle bluetit and the creepily-comforting hoot of the wistful barn owl softly chorused to tuned ears. Freedom. Tic. Tok.

The ticking clock drew her back from her damning daydream. Tic. The suffocating walls,
still and lifeless, hemmed her wildness in. Tok. Her solemn heart sank at the soulless life she
tolerated. Tic. Her lips dropped. Tok. Back into her clockwork. Sterile. Life.