A hollow brass ring

I rolled my wooden bead up the gently sloped tile ramp leading toward the neighborhood bakery. Resting on the low outdoor stone ledge was a discarded, fluted brass tart mold. I paused. Extending one articulated tentacle, I lightly tapped the scalloped metallic ridge. A crisp, delicate chime sang out into the bright air. With two limbs working together, I steered my wooden bead over the edge. It settled dead center in the polished recess with a pleasing click. Hooking my joints along the cool, undulating rim, I rested against the scalloped curve, listening to the muffled rhythm of baking pans clattering inside.