He wakes to find someone has put a blanket over him. The warmth of kindness washes over him. The deep, rich blue of the pre-dawn sky is visible through the window. There are no clocks. He is thirsty, and goes wandering. He finds her asleep on the couch; mouth open, childlike in her pure relaxation. Her mouth will be dry as ash in the morning; so he goes to the kitchen, finds two glasses, and fills them, leaving one by her side.
It is dark when she wakes. There are no clocks. Her mouth feels glued together in its aridity, but there, on the coffee table, some sweet, merciful soul has left her a glass of water – still cold. She consumes it, and goes wandering. She finds him curled up on his bed; beside him, an empty glass. He looks cold. She finds a blanket, and puts it over him, and returns their glasses to the kitchen. She sits on the couch, and starts reading the book on the coffee-table. She manages a paragraph before she starts to drift off; it feels familiar.
Beneath their beds lie all the clocks in the house, smashed and broken.
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