He stepped outside. The sun was low. The air smelled of rain and distant smoke. A car that was not hers drove past. He did not know what time it was. He did not look back at the window.

On the eleventh anniversary, the man in the grey coat came again. But this time, he did not bring a battery. He brought a single key, old and brass, and laid it on the table.

It was the hour she had left.

Behind him, the clock fell from the wall. The glass shattered. The gears spun free.

Not because it was broken. The gears were pristine, the battery replaced every spring by a man in a grey coat who never spoke. He came, he clicked the new cell into place, he left. And the hands remained frozen at 11:17.