A Soft Ticking Disc

A tiny metallic pulse drew me toward the shadowed gap beside the sofa base. I stepped around a fold of hanging blanket and found a small circular travel clock resting face-up on the floorboards. Its slender second hand stepped forward in sharp, rhythmic beats. I crouched low, observing the tiny cog reflections inside the clear plastic dome. When I pressed one gloved hand flat against its cold rim, a faint vibration hummed into my palm. It kept time steadily, marking the quiet evening.