A Matter of Timing

A spent mechanical pocket timer sat wedged between two stone tiles atop the park chess table. Someone had left its brass winding stem jammed against a crack. Disorder in a tactical instrument cannot stand. I planted my boots firmly on the slate surface, gripped the cold milled crown with both hands, and applied steady leverage. It freed with a muted click, followed by the sudden, crisp churring of its internal escapement. Two slow rotations, and the needle leveled true at zero. I smoothed my jacket, squared my stance, and watched the gear settle into stillness.