The Thief of Always

by Clive Barker

“It’s perfect!” Harvey murmured to himself. Mrs. Griffin caught his words. “Nothing’s perfect,” she replied. “Why not?” “Because time passes,” she went on, staring down at the flowers she’d cut. “And the beetle and the worm find their way into everything sooner or later.”

Evil, however powerful it seemed, could be undone by its own appetite.

Time would be precious from now on. It would tick by, of course, as it always had, but Harvey was determined he wouldn’t waste it with sighs and complaints. He’d fill every moment with the seasons he’d found in his heart: hopes like birds on a spring branch; happiness like a warm summer sun; magic like the rising mists of autumn. And best of all, love; love enough for a thousand Christmases.