Work Text:
He says up late at night, staring at the clock.
The ticking haunts him.
One second gone. Another. Another.
Less time to make a mark.
Less time to spare.
Closer to doom.
Tick, tick, tick.
Don't think about it, as he swings a scythe at the wheat. Don't think about it, as he ties bales. Don't think, as he hefts two hay bales onto his back.
Don't think about it, as he comforts his sister on nights of mandated viewings.
Don't think, as his name is entered 32 times.
Do you know how much time you have left, Phil? The sands in the hourglass slip out of your fingers.