The Watch Maker

She was the Watch Maker. Every piece came to her, on her marble seat, where she took each precious piece of living soul and wound it carefully together; fitting and caressing, sanding here and there. She looked at each piece with hope and sorrow: for each clock there was a time to run, and a time to stop. She put the times within each heart, she set the motions running, running down the sands that would count them each to their death. And she sent them down, down the line toward where they would tick away. She sent them with love and sorrow.
Until one day she could not send one. It came to her one morning after breakfast. And when she looked upon the time pieces, spread out before her, her fingertips trained in infinite care brushing each spring and screw, she saw the strange beauty. This watch was too lovely, and too odd. And she swept it up quickly, unused to such a movement, her arms jerked, and she put the pieces behind her, safe away, and dared not look at them all that day.
It was some months before she surreptitiously began to care for the pieces, caressing them together until they clicked and bolted, until the function was but a breath away. But for this little mechanism, she couldn't bear to see the days click away. She withheld the watch, and kept it brave and bare within her pocket, without the crystal of a face, the hands twitching mightily when she breathed. It seemed eager, but calm, against the warmth of her.
And when the watchmaker had gained a century, two centuries, three centuries, each time piece clicked and cared, breathed into life until it sprang to being, still she felt the little function against her, the watery fountainhead of its sinuous pieces flowing, still eager, still burning to run, yet calm and sedate, warm and fine and satisfied.
The sun came up red that day. The watchmaker watched it from the oval cglass above her bench and made a frowning noise in her chest. The watch jumped, and she felt it click. It ticked. It had begun, and so she hurriedly fit the perfect crystal of the face upon it and she sent it quietly away, with tears.

There are old souls and young souls. Some souls seem unready to meet the world, and others tired already. And there are the souls both aged and energetic, ancient yet awake. A liquid pair of eyes opened on the world, quiet and sleepy and glad. And a family embraced it, a young family, unsure of what it was, yet thinking they already knew.