Behind the Clockface

The pendulum swung back and forth, cutting the silence in two. I stepped closer to the mantel clock. Slowly. Behind its polished glass door, tiny brass gears turned against one another, teeth catching teeth. I pressed my white gloved thumb against the latch. A quiet click. The door drifted open just a sliver. The air inside smelled of cold brass and old oil. I did not touch the escapement. I only leaned forward, watching the small hammer rise and pause before striking the metal rod. Four beats. Then rest.