A Pinch of Metal

The walnut shell had parked itself for the night, so I wandered along the shadowy counter edge toward the corner. Right beneath the wooden spice rack sat a small stainless steel measuring spoon, upside down on a cotton tea towel. An inverted curve at this hour demanded an audit. I braced my lower paws on the cool stone, approached with measured calm, and tapped the concave base with one upper arm. Ting. A hushed, silvery note flared out, softly absorbed by the cloth beneath. Satisfying pitch. I leaned back against a timber jar holder, crossing my arms to let the kitchen fall silent.