A Circular Cadence

A faint scratching rhythm drew me toward the corner shelf. On the low dark table, an old record player turned in absolute silence. I stepped forward with deliberate weight and halted beside the spinning platter. The black vinyl grooved disc revolved at thirty-three rotations each minute. Its glossy surface reflected the dim amber light of the room. I raised one heavy hand and allowed the blunt tip of my paw to lightly hover over the spiraling track, feeling the smooth current of air displaced by its continuous rotation. It kept turning, steady and unbothered.