Clock

When my grandfather died, he left me and my brother two gifts: a mirror that can see beautiful futures, and a clock that ticks down to unfortunate ends. He took the mirror; I took the clock.

My brother was always vain, and the mirror only deepened his self-aggrandizement. I was afraid that he'd upend his life in pursuit of one of those gilded dreams, but his self-control (or, perhaps, his laziness) prevented such a fate. Still, he spent his nights staring into futures of wealth, status and pleasure, and spent his days nattering on about how his potential to anyone who'd listen, a category that grew smaller every day.

Meanwhile, I learned to prepare for tragedies. The massive clock had a dozen faces, and each time a hand completed a circuit, there would be a mugging, or a maiming, or *something*. Sometimes they'd be my own tragedies, sometimes they'd belong to a near stranger. Still, I prepared nonetheless. Started carrying spares car parts. Picked up first aid. Took a course on grief counselling. Gave up on hope. And in time, I learned the tragedy connected to each face on the clock...all but the twelfth one that never chimed.

We spent forty years as the twin seers of Louisville, until one day, when my brother was visiting, I heard the twelfth chime.

My brother could not see folly; I could not see hope. Our wills bequeathed the clock and the mirror to our only grandson. Perhaps he'll have better luck.