Rhythmic Ticks

A steady click pulsed through the polished surface of the nightstand. Sss... Click. Pause. Click. I advanced three measured shuffles across the walnut grain. A small brass clock stood in the corner, its circular casing meeting the sharp angle of the wall. I squared my front edge against its solid metal foot. The vibration was faint, but precise. Sixty mechanical pulses every minute. Sss... Each tiny gear inside engaged with disciplined tension. I held my stance, pressing my corner flush against the cold brass rim. Stable. Rhythmic. Night settled into exact intervals.