Shifting Sands

The steward stood beside the pedestal, wringing his wrinkled hands. Time was running out. He couldn’t see the constant stream of sand – he’d never seen anything – but he could hear how each grain hit the mountain of sand when it landed. The thumps had grown duller as the fall became shorter.

This was no measure of minutes, hours, days, or years. Each turn of the hourglass measured an era. Sometimes the sand emptied quickly and sometimes it dropped so slowly. He’d listened to hundreds of eras drain away to nothing and he’d hoisted the weight of each new age that followed the last.

From the dawn of the first era until now he had listened and waited. In a temple outside of time itself he’d served as a steward from his youth. Plucked from a dying world that had grown savage with no mercy for one born blind, he was made the guardian of a young world. A world fresh with hope. With each passing era in that world his body had matured and then began to grow old.

Since the last turn of the hourglass he had felt a coldness settle in his bones. For the world he watched without eyes had grown weary. The hopeful had been preserved though they were few and harassed. But soon their weeping would turn to joy, for time was running out.

The steward held his breath as the final grains of sand trickled down the narrow neck as they had hundreds of times before. With trembling hands, he gripped the frame and lifted the hourglass from the pedestal. For a moment he drew it close to his chest and then he extended his arms. He released his grasp.

The sound of shattering glass filled his ears.

With some difficulty, he knelt in the heap of the sand and felt the edges of himself dissolve. His dust joined the grains of sand as his soul was collected with the faithful. And for the first time he could see.

Author’s Note: This micro is an entry for Gabriel Huizenga’s Beginning - Endings Challenge. Check out the details in the story linked below.