Crank and Cog

I pushed through the loose fence plank and followed the alley gravel all the way to the sidewalk. Propped against the brick corner on a kickstand stood an old green bicycle. Its low pedal hung right at chest height, coated in fine dust. I stopped two paces away, scanning the wheel spokes. Nothing stirred. Stepping up deliberately, I braced both paws against the ridged pedal and leaned my weight down. The arm rotated smoothly, pulling a greasy chain that snapped across the rear cog with three sharp, rhythmic clicks. The wheel gave a slow, quiet spin. No ghosts, no hazards—just honest iron gears. Deliberately, I pressed the pedal once more.