The sky was tinted a lovely orange upward from the horizon.

The orange faded away into a pale yellow spread until the blue, getting slowly lighter, covered the rest of the sky. The bottoms of the clouds high above were brushed with a soft red color. A row of tall trees stood against the orange-colored sky, spreading their branches shaded with black. Two little sparrows flew above them, dived into the midst of a tree, and disappeared. Their topmost leaves glimmered bright red. How he wished, as he knelt gazing, that he could put those colors onto a canvas —

The minute arm, long and black, slowly ticked to twelve.

The window came back and closed with a sudden crash, and the curtain drew itself across the window, blocking the sight.

He stayed there kneeling by the window in the darkness. The curtain was so thick that most of the light was blocked out. There was a large black bolted door beside the window, and on the other side was a small bed laid over with a bedsheet that appeared gray in the dark. A small cat wearing a coat of gray fur slept soundly on it. After a while, he groaned, stood up, and turned around to look at the clock.

On the wall, within a thin black rim, there was a white round face with twelve numbers neatly arranged on it. The hour hand, black and short but thick, stayed still, pointing toward seven. The long minute hand, so long that it nearly touched the numbers, was just above the number one. The second arm, thin and restless and red in color, steadily ticked on to twelve, and the minute hand moved onto the number one. Just then, on the other corner of the dark room, a door sprang open. With a grim face, he walked through the door.

There was a table made of steel with a steel chair placed against the wall. Upon it were many books piled on top of each other. They all had covers of solid colors and covered half of the table. And on the little space left, there was a small black table lamp, a green pencil holder, and a box of mathematical instruments. On the other end of the table, there was a stack of exercise books. Next to the table, there was a set of drawers made out of steel. On the very top of the drawers, there were more piles of books with solid-colored covers. On the other side of the room was a steel cupboard with still more books on top of it. He went and pulled out the chair and sat on it. The cat came and sat on the floor beside him. Looking at the towering pile of books, he sighed and glanced down.

From where he sat, looking down, he could see, hidden away under the table, the glass jar in which the paint brushes were kept. There was a thick layer of dust gathered on the jar. Between a thin paintbrush with a blue handle and a large brown brush, a miniature cobweb was woven. He kept looking at it. After a while, he raised his head and looked around him. There was a small gap between his table and the drawers. Through this, he could see the edges of the canvas boards stored away behind them. And the handle of a cricket bat prodded out from the space between the floor and the drawers.

He looked at the farthest corner of the room where, partly hidden from view because of the steel cupboard, there was a small cupboard. It had glass doors framed with wood. Through the glass, he could see, placed on the shelves, many books with lovely pictures on their covers and lovely tales inside them. On the top shelf of the cupboard, there were ample paint bottles and boxes of paint tubes and paint brushes. But the cupboard was locked with a large padlock. On the top of the wooden cupboard, there was a brown guitar.

He bit his lips and nervously glanced at the door he came from. Then he stood up, pushing the chair backward, and crawled under the table. He reached out his hand towards the jar of brushes —

The thin red second hand hurriedly ticked to twelve, and the minute hand slowly ticked to the number two.

There was a loud crashing sound and the chair suddenly began to slide toward the table. He got out from under the table, and the startled cat jumped out of the way just in time as the chair slid under the table and came to a stop.

He looked yearningly at the jar, still unmoved, and then glared at the chair. Then he looked at where the loud sound came from. On the other side of the room another door, wooden and whitewashed, had opened, leading to another room. Still glaring, he slouched through the open door.

On a long wooden table, there was a tall glass of milk. Beside it was a basket woven with cane. There was a bunch of bananas, two guavas, and a tiny orange in the basket. There was a single steel chair by the table, on which he came and sat. He looked at the basket of fruit with interest. Then he took the two guavas and placed them on the table close together but with a little gap between them. He took out the tiny orange as well and put it in the gap between the guavas. Finally, he took a banana from the bunch and placed it near the guavas and the orange, with the tips of it turned toward the other fruits. He smiled at the face looking back at him, with two guava eyes and an orange nose and a smiling banana mouth —

At that moment, on the clock, the second hand ticked to twelve and the long minute hand moved to three.

The fruit face on the table became disfigured as all the fruits began to roll toward the basket. First, the guavas rolled across the table, followed by the orange and the banana. When they reached the basket, one by one, all the fruits slowly toppled into it. He sat there in silence with knotted brows and a grim mouth. Then, having nothing else to do, he took the glass of milk and began to drink it.

The minute hand ticked to four when he returned to the room with the steel table and the books. From a tall pile of books placed at the edge of the table, a book with a solid green cover fell onto the little space left on the table. Then the book opened and the pages began to turn themselves at a terrific speed and came to a stop in the middle of the book. With a groan, he took an exercise book from the pile on the table, a pencil, and the box of mathematical instruments and sat down. Then he opened his exercise book and, referring to the green-covered book, began his work.

The clock ticked on and he continued his work. After a while, the minute hand on the clock ticked to four. The book with the green cover closed itself. An enormous book with a solid black cover was placed on top of a pile of books on the table. That book slowly slid forward and softly fell onto the green-covered book. Then the black book opened itself and, just as the green book had, its first few pages turned themselves and came to a stop in the middle of the book. Heaving a sigh, he put away the exercise book he was writing on and took another from the pile of exercise books. Then, referring to the black book, he started his work. As he worked and time went by, he slowly became restless. Instead of writing, he twiddled his pencil and thought about many things.

The minute hand moved to the number five.

As the black book closed itself, he looked around the room and made a sudden decision. He stood up and hastily picked up the chair and walked toward the wooden cupboard in the corner. He eagerly gazed through the glass doors at the books concealing stories and tales of wonder and shot an angry look at the padlock used to lock the cupboard. Then, he looked at the guitar sitting on the cupboard, quite out of reach. He put the chair down near the cupboard and quickly climbed onto it.

He stood on his toes, grabbed hold of the cupboard’s top, and looked closely at the guitar. Its strings were covered in dust. He reached out his hand to take it.

The thin second hand crossed the number twelve and the minute hand ticked to six.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, the padlock of the cupboard unlocked itself, making a small clicking sound. Then, all at once, the doors of the cupboard sprang open, pushing the chair away. It was all he could do to keep from tumbling down as the chair he stood on slid across the room with a terrible screech. When the chair came to a stop, he slowly climbed down with a face as white as paper. After a while, the minute hand slowly moved to seven. The doors of the wooden cupboard closed again, and the padlock locked itself once more.

Still dazed from his frightful experience, he slowly pushed the chair toward his table and sat down. The cat, which had snuck under the table, now climbed onto it. It was holding a thin paintbrush with a blue handle in its mouth. He took the paintbrush, as the cat sat waving its tail. A smile etched onto his face as he keenly examined the paintbrush, rolling it between his fingers. But, after a while, his face darkened.

“No, kitty, I am not someone who is supposed to mingle with these things . . . or, at least, that’s how it wants it to be,” he said bitterly as he listened to the sound of the clock ticking in the other room.

“But then, who am I?”

He kept fidgeting with the paintbrush with knotted eyebrows. Then —

The minute hand of the clock slowly ticked to the number eight.

The enormous black book slid toward the edge of the table and pushed the cat down onto the floor. The poor cat, startled once again, landed softly on its paws. The black book slowly slid off the table and fell toward the cat. Within a blink of a moment, the cat jumped away and the enormous book, as thick and heavy as a large brick, fell onto the floor, where the cat had sat a second ago, with a mighty thud.

He jumped to his feet. An enraged look was in his eyes. He was finally set off. Bending down, he picked up the enormous black book. Through the open door, in the dark room, he could see the clock ticking away on the wall. With a livid look on his face and tightened lips, he firmly grabbed the black book, and lifting it up, he threw it through the door at the clock —

The minute hand of the clock ticked to nine and the door of the dark room began to close.

There was silence and nothing moved.

The big black book thrown at the clock was caught between the closing door and the wall. Halfway up from the floor, the book stayed stuck between the door and the wall, preventing the door from closing.

The cat, having been pushed down from a table and nearly crushed by a brick of a book, ran into the dark room through the gap between the door and the wall created by the book. He stayed still, looking at what had happened. Then, with a small grin, he squeezed through the gap between the door and the wall.

The clock was no longer moving. The hour hand was still, as usual. But the minute hand wasn’t moving. And the thin red second hand could only twitch, unable to move. As he approached the clock, the twitching of the second hand became faster and faster. He stood smiling at the clock and then, reaching up with his right hand, he took the clock down from the wall and removed its battery.

He tossed the silent clock and the battery onto the bed with a gray bed sheet. He went to the window and drew open the thick curtain. The curtain did not close itself again. He then turned the handle of the black door by the window and found it unlocked. He went back to the room with the steel table and returned with some paint tubes and the jar of paintbrushes and a canvas. Opening the black door, with the cat at his heels and the paints and canvas in his arms, he stepped out into the sunshine.