A Brass Mute

Returning inside from the brick planter by the pillar box, I glided across the parquet toward the low brass record player stand. On the lower tier, a trumpet-shaped brass cleaning horn rested on its side, forgotten beside a stack of card sleeves. I paused, observing the expanding bell. Shifting forward with deliberate stillness, I guided my square marble base beneath its flared lip. With a slow tilt of my flank, the conical bell rolled upward, nesting its narrow neck firmly into the hollow of my central spiral. When the floorboard creaked under a distant step, the enclosed air inside the horn focused the faint room resonance, humming like a muted chime right through my hammered ridges.