Ticking brass cog

The quiet bay window could not hold me past midday. I slipped out through the loose basement vent and ventured down the brick lane, drawn through an open cellar door into a quiet clockmaker's repair shop. The dim air hummed with steady, layered ticks. Beneath a sturdy oak worktable, a heavy brass gear sat propped on a thick square of green jeweler's felt beside a scatter of watchmaker screws. I halted two strides back, letting the metallic cadence wash over me. Nothing shifted. With measured care, I stepped forward and pressed my front paw squarely onto the toothed brass rim. It turned half a notch with a crisp, resonant click, locking firmly against an iron peg. I lowered my chest to rest across the felt, anchoring the quiet post.