The Hour Called Who

The hour was Who, but nobody here ever seemed to ask why, and when someone did bring up the question, how and where were always discussed at the most inappropriate times.

Hour had been sitting there for as long as anyone could remember, which was to say not long at all, wearing a top hat that never quite fit and pouring cup after cup of cold tea from a chipped porcelain pot. The liquid made no sound as it fell, simply arriving where it was meant to be, as though it had already been poured. Across from him, the owl watched.

The owl had arrived earlier, or perhaps later, though it was difficult to tell. He folded his wings with deliberate care, as if each feather had a place in some larger equation, his eyes wide, reflective, and slightly impatient. He had been looking forward to his visit for weeks or what had seemed to be an eternity before the hour had finally returned his call.

Instead of cordial greetings owl blurted out “You’re late,”

“I’m exactly on time,”

“That’s not the same thing.” Owl said as he tilted his head enjoying his time.

Hour considered this, then poured another cup of tea that was, as always, cold.

“Why ‘Who’ and not ‘When’?” the owl asked, softer now, as though testing the shape of the question. Somewhere beyond them, another owl called. A low, hollow who, who, who that did not seem to come from any single direction, just another question waiting its turn.

Hour paused mid-pour, leaving the stream of tea to hang in the air for an undecided moment before answering. “I don’t think that question belongs to me,” hour said.

“Then who does it belong to?” Owl said quickly.

“That’s what you’re asking.”replied hour slowly.

Owl blinked once. Somewhere behind them, a clock attempted to tick but could not decide on a direction, its hands drifting, correcting, and drifting again.

“I’ve been waiting,” owl said.

“For what?”

“For the right question,” owl said, and after a moment of thought, continued quietly, “or the right time to ask it.”

Hour set the teapot down, “And how will you know when you’ve found it?”

Owl did not answer, looking instead at the cup in front of him. “Why is the tea cold?”

Hour smiled faintly. “Because you noticed it too late.”

Owl leaned forward. “So it was once hot.”

“Everything is,” said hour. “Briefly.”

The owl considered this, running the idea through whatever quiet machinery lived behind his eyes, though it did not settle.

“And you?” owl asked. “Do you change?”

Hour adjusted his hat as it slipped slightly to one side. “I pass,” he said.

“That’s not the same thing.” Pondered the owl.

They both sat quietly as the steam from the tea vanished again.

Now, silence spread between them, thin but persistent, as the walls of hour’s room seemed to lean in curiously and the clock gave up trying altogether.

At last, owl broke the silence. “If I asked the right question,” owl said, “would anything be different?”

The hour looked at him, not past him, not through him, but directly at him for the very first time since owl sat down. “No,” he said. “But you would be.”

Owl sat very still, then slowly unfolded his wings. The room shifted, not forward, not backward, but inward, as though the moment itself had taken a breath. The teacup on the table trembled, and for a single instant, the tea inside it steamed.

Owl watched it happen, but he did not explain. And in the distance close by another owl called, “Who, who, who.” The hour looked “Ah, it’s time.”

By the time the steam vanished, the hour was already pouring another cup, and the owl, patient as ever, began again, but this would have to wait as his hour was up…