He set the counter on the chronomodulator, stepped inside.
His children watched with confusion from the cellar stair.
The chrono ground time to a halt; Peter stepped out. The air was still, cold; time no longer a narrow path with approaching end, but a vast open plain of infinite horizons.
Such was it that he indulged in hobbies of writing and crafts, though each frozen hour cost him four years of life, so that when he stepped free of the chrono, the children stared at the now wizened old man, and asked him “why?”