Harold was infuriated. Every morsel of his being told him to help her, but of course he couldn’t. He could do nothing but sit and listen. The crying was like nothing he ever heard before. A flood of emotions washed over him, feelings of shock and betrayal, indignation and helplessness. He felt like erasing everything he ever thought was good, pure or genuine. Now it all meant nothing.
And so, Harold lived on, all the while knowing that he was the only other person who knew what happened on the 5th of May. Although it may not have been very noticeable to many people, something in Harold died that day. He gave up trying to keep positive, he no longer cared about trying to provide a service, and he lost the little morsel of faith he had in humanity. Exteriorly, he continued to live with the Winfield’s, his arms ticking each second, his timekeeping sufficiently accurate, but it was the end of Harold. All that was left was a vacant ticking clock, hanging from a rusted nail.