When Mara finally unpacked the last box in the new apartment, she found her grandmother's clock wrapped in a dish towel at the bottom. She had not asked for it; her mother had simply slipped it in among the plates. For a long moment Mara stood holding it, listening to a silence where its ticking used to be, and then she set it on the empty mantel without winding it. It belonged there, she decided, even quiet, the way a photograph belongs on a wall whether or not anyone is looking at it.