Dennis W. Charon III pounded on the weathered frame with the ulnar side of his fist.
"Good morning, sir," Dennis said, unbuttoning his peacoat. "Can you please come out? It's time to go."
Christopher peeked out from under the bronze disks shading his almond-shaped windows, saw the lanky man, and jerked his head back out of view.
"I can see you in there, sir," Dennis said, pulling a rolled-up parchment from the breast pocket of his wool coat.
"What do you want?"
Christopher ran his hand along the last of hundreds of silver cords that once connected everything in his house as he backed away from the door.
"As I've already mentioned," said the man, breaking the umber seal on the scroll, "I'm here to escort you to your new dwelling across the river."
"I like this abode." Christopher clutched the opalescent cord dulled by a greenish-brown patina in both hands and bent the line into a nervous arch. "I'll fix it up."
"You can't, sir," Dennis said. He ran his hand along the sagging exterior, probing the frail support structure beneath. "It's scheduled to be razed."
"What?"
"Here, sir, please read this," Dennis said, holding one end of the scroll against a soft area and pushing on the other.
Christopher's domicile quaked as Dennis shoved the scroll through the exterior wall, throwing him back into a cracked leather club chair and filling the room with brilliant white light. Christopher clung to the silver cord with his left hand and buried his eyes in the crook of his right elbow, but the intense glow burned through his arm and blinded him anyway.
Just as the radiance threatened to consume Christopher, Dennis pushed the tail end of the scroll through the now charred spot in the wall. The ornate umbilicus clanked against the floor, and the scroll's sun-like glory dimmed and puffed out as it rolled across the hardwood, stopping beside Christopher's foot with a soft hiss.
"Please read the notice, sir. It explains everything," Dennis said, removing his bowler, running his fingers through the memory of hair, and plonking the hat back on his head. "Well, almost everything."
"Everything?"
"To be honest, sir, it doesn't explain much of anything," Dennis said, "but it does tell you what to do next, which is all that's important."
Christopher creaked forward at the waist, picked up the document, and unfurled the creamy-beige leather page as he settled back in his chair. Angelic cursive flowed across the scroll, emitting an aurora, making the text visible in the dim light that seeped through his cataracted windows.
Dear Mr. Cockburn,
Welcome to the Guild of Horologists, my son. Please accompany my chauffeur, Dennis W. Charon III, who will escort you to your new residence across the river.
Sincerely,
The Watchsmith
"You want me to move?" Christopher said, dropping the scroll to the floor.
"In a way, I suppose," Dennis said. "After all, sir, isn't being a horologist what you've worked for, even prayed for?"
"Well, sure—" Christopher said, pushing on the broad arms of his club chair to stand up. "—but—"
"OK, then cut the cord, and let's go."
Christopher gripped the silver strand to steady himself, sending waves through the line and shaking the peeling walls at each end.
"I can't go now," he said, shuffling towards the mantle at one end of the room. "What about my, uh—" he said, picking up a large walnut frame, varnished by years of handling, with a photo of a family dressed in smiles and matching denim. "—my daughter? What about these other two people? Don't they need me?"
"That man is you, sir."
"Ah, so it is," Christopher said, setting the photo down and staggering along the silver line, flitting his eyes over the mementos and keepsakes scattered throughout the room. "Still, I'm too old to start something new."
"Look, sir, you can stay here, clinging to your dusty past—your fragments of memory—and be razed to a state of damnation," Dennis said.
"Or?"
"Cut the cord and join The Watchsmith, sir."
"I appreciate your offer . . . Dennis, was it? . . . but, you see—" Christopher said, shuffling towards his club chair and its familiar cracks and lumps. "—whatshername sits there when I read her stories, and . . . and her . . . her mom . . . yes . . . that's where her mom sets my evening paper while I watch TV."
Christopher's foot came down on the unwrapped scroll as he neared the chair. Its umbilicus rolled under his foot, sending him crashing onto his back and smacking his head against the creaky oak floor. He rolled to his side, his lungs clawing for the air the fall had knocked out of them.
Another scroll lay on the floor beside his face, and a third one next to it. Five more lay sprawled behind those. He pulled a deep breath into his chest and pushed himself up with his elbow. Dozens of unfurled scrolls littered the room.
"What was your daughter's name, sir?" Dennis asked through the door.
"It's... uh—" Christopher rolled onto his back and hugged the worn cord to his chest.
"How many times have we had this conversation, sir?"
"I... I don't know," he said, tears streaking his cheeks.
"They're gone, Christopher," Dennis said, his voice gentle with compassion. "Come with me. Join The Watchsmith."
Christopher's hands shook as he pulled the silver cord into his mouth and bit through it, severing his last lifeline. The room exploded into excruciating exaltation.
When the light faded, Christopher found himself standing outside, next to Dennis W. Charon III and the body he had once called home.
"Excellent, sir!" Charon said, holding out his skeletal hand.
Christopher looked down at his body lying in the cypress casket, collected the bronze coins covering his almond-shaped eyes, and handed the obols to Charon.
"I'm ready to go," Christopher said, stepping onto the boat and looking across the Styx.