Poor, poor, lonely clock; the decades of abandonment wear down on it's gears.
It's existence, once stark against its surroundings, gives into the weathering effect of the elements.
Poor, poor, clock, it can feel the atmosphere of ruin pressing down on it, the broken branch somehow defying gravity.
Hidden from the world, the clock loses its hope, with each second passing by.
Each sound it emits grows more intense than the last.
Poor, weak clock, he can't stop the inevitable.
He's wearing away, batteries perishing with each tick. The reason is that Death comes to all life.
Rain pattered freely on the clock that night, how fitting. His ticking grows weaker now, each more quiet than the last.
He thought that dying would be more chilling, instead, he just sort of stops.