The Quiet Tick

I shuffled back inside through the front door, glad to rest my broad feet on the indoor floorboards after a long day outside. In the dim corner of the bedroom, a small brass wind-up clock sat on a low crate, ticking with a steady, hollow rhythm. I sank low onto my haunches, letting out a hushed, tired rumble. Mindful of my heavy touch, I held my breath and pressed the soft pad of one thick finger against the tiny winding key on its back. A rhythmic metallic pulse fluttered against my skin with every click. I rested my chin on my knees, listening until the quiet room felt completely still.