A Single Chime
On the corner of the shed's workbench, an exposed music box mechanism rested inside a rusted tobacco tin. The little brass cylinder was studded with rows of tiny raised pins, facing an array of steel tines. Slipping the tortoiseshell pick from my guitar strap, I braced my boots against the tin's rolled rim. With a steady hand, I caught the longest tooth of the comb and pulled back just enough to let it snap free. A bright, bell-like ping rang out through the hollow metal casing, vibrating cleanly beneath my feet. The shed's dusty air seemed to freeze around the note, holding the ring for whole seconds before drifting back into silence.
