Hourglass

The snow falls softly, drifting noiselessly to the ground. He stands by the window, watching, but soon he sighs restlessly and turns away. He walks toward the small table beside the window, where the rose sits in its glass container, glowing dimly in the dark. He lays a gentle hand – paw? – on the cool glass cover.

And to his horror, a petal drifts off of the rose.

"No!" he whispers hoarsely, desperately.

The rose is wilting. It has always been wilting, but now there are only eight or nine petals left, and they seem to be falling ever more quickly. While there are petals, there is time, but that time is running out. When it does, he will be trapped. He knows that with every breath, every heartbeat, his time is running shorter.

It's like watching the sand falling through an hourglass, except that it's crueler, because he cannot tell how much sand is left inside. It is an hourglass of petals, of thorns that are ripping his soul to shreds.

He whimpers and pulls the rose with its glass prison against his heart. In the darkness, the Beast falls to his knees.

Another grain of sand falls with him.