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The Old German Clock
Before going to bed that night, I searched the house for Schrodinger again. He never left a speck of food in his bowl - not even on the rare occasion where I accidentally fed him twice. Janine had ripped that delusion away by acknowledging the damn thing. That night I moved the clock back to its new home in the spare room. It ticked madly. The metal pendulum safe behind the unbroken glass. The eye had watched crack and blacken in a fire. Holding it in my hands, I swear. I felt a pulsing warmth beneath the wood. Like a black heart pumping warm blood through the mechanical guts of the old timepiece.