Time, it is said, heals all wounds. But what does Time, that ever flowing, uncaring creature, cold in its passing, know of the wounds of the soul? What does Time know of the pain of a broken heart? The anguish of lost love? Nothing. It knows neither the joy of being loved, nor the agony of love lost. It does not know nor does it care. It just is. Time; ever moving, ever passing and forever unchanged in its coldness.
Yet, despite the coldness of its passage, Time does indeed heal the wounds, numbs the psychic anguish until at last, when near the end of the voyage, Time has taken all the pain into itself. At that moment, Time becomes something more. The brittle, sharp edges of pain are ground down by Time's merciless march and transmuted into soft memory. The barbs that shred the soul become seeds that grow into dreams of what was. Pain made into more in Time's cold hands.
Tick…tock. He sat, head in his hands, back bowed with sorrow, waiting- while Time moved on.