Of Wonders

The white-clad man didn’t seem nearly solemn enough as he uttered these words. He wore a thoughtful expression, as if pondering his own pronouncement, the same fate he’d likely spoken of to countless others before. His voice carried the finality of an ancient law, though he delivered it like a well-rehearsed line from a play, detached and calm, as though life and death were trivial matters on a neatly printed pamphlet.

“W-what?” Malachi’s face drained of color as he stared at the hourglass he had been handed only a tick ago. He gripped the glass tightly, and in a moment of panicked disbelief, he shook it, hoping to see the grains stop or slow down.

They didn’t.

“Come now. That won’t do any good, the hourglass cannot be affected by outside forces, the sands will trickle and that will be the end of it. You cannot change the nature of things outside your control more than I can.”

“How does this have anything to do with nature, an hourglass will tell me when I die? That’s absurd!”

“Yet you know deep down I’m telling you the truth, you feel it—the connection to the seconds filtering through the tight neck of the glass, how they stifle and how—when they land in the ever-growing pile, they are all but spent, like the remains of a once-blazing fire.”

He looked back at the glass in his hands, its neat wooden casing, and the flawless crystal glass—the falling grains.

Malachi watched them, one by one, and his thoughts went to sterile white hospital waiting rooms, his short temper during the drive home, the distractions of a game that made him tune out his daughter’s innocent chatter, his daily train rides to and from work.

The grains felt unbearably heavy.

“I don’t have too much time now, do I?” he asked with a voice tinged with morbid curiosity.

“I’m afraid you do not,” the white-clad replied with a compassionate smile, “and I am sure you would like to spend it elsewhere, and not argue with an old fool.”

Malachi met his gaze, and gave him a thorough look for the first time. He was old, but his wrinkled face was not yet carved with the depth of age. The lines were thin and simple, but his eyes were old beyond recognition—he could tell. The man was indeed compassionate, but there was something resting in his eyes, a distance he thought no human could bridge the gap thereof, a lingering pain, a cruel reminder of the shortness of human life, or maybe a cycle of reminders.

The white-clad could not simply be an old fool.

“Ah, you are beginning to realize,” the old one said, with a hint of satisfaction.

“Are you—”

“Another time, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Malachi sighed, focusing again on the hourglass.

“Do as you wish with whatever time you have left, as you’ve always done. After all, that’s all anyone can ever do.”

When he looked back up, the white-clad was gone. He felt an odd hollowness in his chest. Then, almost instinctively, he slipped the glass into his jacket pocket. It felt heavy against his chest, yet somehow fit perfectly, as though it had always belonged there.

He glanced at his wrist; his watch read, ‘18:03.’ He could still make the next train.

 

Before, the landscape had felt like an endless meadow, but now it painted itself in—like a dream that only revealed what he needed see. The gravel crunched under his feet, almost hungrily, as though the earth itself reached up to meet him with every step. The sky, heavy and bruised with clouds, hung low above him like the aftermath of an avalanche, its weight too great to move any further. And then, without warning, the clouds wept.

The rain poured down onto him; if he had stepped fully clothed into a shower, he would have been drier. The drops came slow at first, as they tested their footing, then the sky opened at full force. The station washed away from him, and its lights painted the deluge with sharp reds, whites, and greens. Rain cleansed his weariness and shoo-ed his anxiety—the droplets weighed him down in the moment, and the cold water stung his skin with clarity.

His fears washed away, stolen by the rain, flooded down the street drains.

Malachi tilted his head backwards, and let the rain pour over him. The cold water tugged at his lips. His hair was pressed flat against his scalp, the strands clinged to his skin, heavy and wet. The world around him was distant—blurred by the sheets of rain that painted the streets and buildings like canvases passed by and forgotten in daily bustle.

The rain drummed against his face, a steady rhythm, its cold bite ignited a blaze inside his chest. The leather drum of freedom stretched taut inside him, each beat slow but powerful, as though his heart was keeping time with the downpour.

He was going to die.

But so was everyone else.

He simply found himself first in line.

Liberation filled the well in his chest.

The things that had once anchored him—obligations, the endless list of things he thought he had to do—all but dying echoes. The weight of expectation lifted, and in its place, a clarity settled. All the things he’d been putting off, the dreams left hanging in the air—now a worry left for another generation.

He could finally live, even in the knowledge of death. Nothing else mattered; he was free.

Free to live as he had strived towards, for as long as he could know: a lifetime.

 

His feet moved, and his heartstrings pulled him toward the colors of the train station. With light footwork, he skipped over the puddles he decided not to splash with his oxfords, while the others… well.

There he was. Dancing in the moonlight, under a sky of falling rain.

A mother walking by tightened her grip on her son’s hand. “Don’t look at him,” she whispered. “He’s crazy.”

Malachi smiled at his remoteness, laughing quietly to himself. Yes. He was crazy, crazy to not have lived before.

An old woman gazed out from a window of a warm cafe, sipping her warm tea. Her wrinkled face broke into a knowing smile when she spotted the drenched man. To be young again.

As the doors on the metal bucket slid open, Malachi stepped inside the train, while water pooled at his feet.

His eyes sparkled as if he had just shared in some grand joke the others weren’t privy to. He met their eyes, but most quickly looked away, pretending to be absorbed in their phones or the passing cityscape outside. Only the faint reflection of his wet silhouette stared back at him from the puddled train floor.

 

As the train arrived at his stop, Malachi stepped off, leaving a wet imprint on the platform. He didn’t hurry; the rain had slowed to a drizzle, but his clothes were still heavy, clinging to his skin like a second layer. He walked toward home, letting the city pass him by in a blur of lights and muted sounds. For once, he wasn’t rushing. Time didn’t matter the way it used to.

 

Now home, he blasted through the door with a thud.

His wife looked up from the couch, her brow was furrowed when he met her eyes.

“Where have you been? You are soak—Oh, honey, are you okay? Your eyes…”

They were glassy, crystal, and held the weight of time.

For a moment he wanted to tell her everything. Tell her about the man in white, the hourglass, about how little time he had left, but…

No.

He would spend his last moments with her—unhindered by grief and its black talons.

He told her not of his fate.

“I missed you,” he said with a thick voice.

“Oh,”

“I love you,” he said, pulling her close.

“I love you too,” she replied, her eyes softened with affection, and her voice curled up, and became as smooth and warm as a cat’s purr.

They spent the evening in easy conversation, laughter flowing between them like it always had, but with a softness that felt timeless. Every smile, every shared glance seemed effortless—their time together, unburdened by worries or the ticking of the hourglass in his pocket that hung on a peg by the door. It was as if they had stepped outside of time itself, just the two of them, savoring each other’s company without a single shadow to cloud the moment.

 

But, even the sweetest moments must come to an end.

His wife excused herself to the bathroom, and in that brief absence, Malachi checked the hourglass.

There wasn’t much sand left. Not enough.

 

The bathroom door lagged open, and out came a warm voice.

“I’m going to bed. You coming, love?” his wife asked.

“I’m just going to read for a bit. Is that okay?” he replied.

“Don’t stay too long.”

“Sure,” he said, and strode across the floor to hug her tightly and give her a lingering kiss.

“I will see you,” he said, “soon.”

She stared into his eyes, so long he thought he would be swallowed by the black pupil and the dancing colors that surged around it like the planets circled the sun.

“Soon,” she repeated, kissed him, and left.

 

“That was beautiful,” a soft familiar voice spoke.

“How long have you been there?” he asked as he turned, laying eyes on the gently wrinkled face.

“Long enough to see who you really are,” the white-clad replied with a smile.

“So, what now?” he asked, though Malachi already knew the answer.

“You know the rest,” the white-clad said, the resignation in his eyes muddled his voice. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He thought out loud: “I wonder what will happen with them. They’ll be happy, I’m sure.”

“Yes, after some time, of course,” the white-clad agreed. “And when their time comes, they will receive an hourglass of their own.”

“I’m glad, that is comforting,” Malachi replied.

The white-clad smiled in agreement, then he locked eyes with the hourglass, and the final sand falling through the neck, rolling down the dune.

“You feel it, I’m sure?” he spoke tenderly.

He winced. “Will it hurt any more than this?”

“It will not.”

“Ah, that’s something.” A grim smile touched his lips while pain painted a grimace across his face. He looked at the white-clad and sensed the weight upon his chest. He invited him to speak, hoping to shift his focus from what would come next:

“You look at me the way I looked at my daughter when she first rode her bike alone,” he said, his voice strained and heavy. “Pride, but damn it! It’s also the ache of letting go. So, tell me—what’s on your mind? And don’t lie to a dying man.”

“For centuries,” he began, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes, “I’ve watched you, become your friend, and lost you all over again. It pained me dearly each time I got close to you, but now I see, finally, after all these years. Why now? I bet no one has the answer, not even the wisest among us.”

The man looked at him with a peculiar expression. He paused, gazed into the distance of the infinite nothingness that lay between him and the paneled walls, as if peering through the veil of time itself. As the veil was drawn, he caught glimpses of lives lived and time spent; a familiar figure in white lingered at the edges of his memory, and from that memory, a name that seemed to rejoice with the white cloth swam forward: Theo. And though he was dying, he felt compelled—and perfectly comfortable—not to interrupt.

A smile enveloped Theo, as the words presented themselves to him, the ones he had spent cycles to grasp: “What great wonders lie ahead our busy unbeknownst noses?”

Malachi knew, and looked pleased, but his heavy shoulders slumped forwards now, and breathing became difficult.

Theo’s gaze softened, a slight tilt of his head—Malachi’s strength was spent. His eyes, usually distant, flickered with a rare warmth—a quiet understanding.

“You do not have to struggle anymore, friend. You are free, finally. Go rest now; you deserve so.”

He tried to speak, but the words were stolen by his last breath, and instead it shaped the curling lips on his face; an echo lifted him into the Next:

“When the last grain falls, you die.”

The veil felt like home—like drifting into a deep sleep, with love nestled up against you—a weary head resting against your rising chest.