James sits in his room, staring out of the window watching life stroll past as he listens to his favourite classical music. He hasn’t had a visitor for a while; not since his son visited him on his birthday four months ago. The obligatory visit. It’s a lonely existence since the departure of Ruth, the mother of his child. Ever since her death he’s withdrawn to his room, waiting for his end to bring them together again.

He rarely socialises with other residents. He finds their conversations frivolous, not worthy of his time. Time was once a precious commodity to him. Time paid for his house, his cars, his wife’s care, his son’s degree and many superficial trophies. People paid for his time. He’s not now going to give it away for free.

It’s time that he also regrets. His time earned his name upon the wall of Jenson Cooper Reardon; however that name couldn’t tell him what it was like to hear his son’s first words, see his first steps, see his first Rugby match or see him graduate. Time earned him one life but robbed him of one richer and now time sits beside him, waiting, mocking him.

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