It's taken on new meaning for Cogsworth, time has.

Time fills the hollows housed within him. Disrupts the air and drowns any voice which could fill it. A mechanical drum of beats; any heart made vestigial. A grinding churn of gears; his core animate. Alive where nothing else of him is, anymore.

A pendulum swings in regular metallic ticks; the trivial fire of nerves no longer the stir that swoops his gut. Numbers, not feeling, read across a featureless face. Hands, sweeping away seconds like tears, miss not one count or space between.

And yet still, time escapes his grasp.