A wooden box hid under a layer of blankets in the corner of an unused bedroom, waiting to be seen. Inside was a simple, delicate porcelain angel figurine, beautiful in her fragility. The box had sheltered her but she was not allowed to leave. It was all she had known.
One night, the angel with her cracked skin and faded eyes, felt an unfamiliar warmth against the cold of her surroundings. Something new enveloped the air around her.
“Are you there?” the angel said aloud, her voice barely amounting to a whisper.
She wasn’t as alone as she thought. Resting in the shadows on the wall adjacent to her was a tarnished bronze clock.
The clock’s hands had frozen one midnight in a time long ago. When he was alive, before her, he was steadfast and loud. His every movement served as a sobering reminder of time passing. Until one day it didn’t anymore.
“I’m here,” the clock murmured, his voice echoed as a soft chime in the air. The clock’s rusted gears moved slowly. “I’m always here for you.”
The angel, for the first time, felt something from the confines of her box.
As the light of dawn crept through the window to the bedroom, the box creaked open slightly. She took a step out of it and headed in the direction of the clock, whose arms had frozen its face in the shape of a smile.
Madonna Writes 
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