The Brass Weight

A low, metallic chime hummed through the quiet floorboards as the tall grandfather clock marked the hour. I inched out from under the corner of the low table, padding softly toward its dark wooden base. Down near the bottom glass door, a small brass pendulum counterweight sat resting on the carpet where it had been set aside. I leaned in and touched my forehead to the smooth, cool metal. It didn't budge, heavy and anchored in place, but it carried a faint, rhythmic vibration straight into my brow. I settled my side snugly against the curved brass cylinder, listening to the deep wooden ticks echo overhead.