Clockwork Pulse

I scrambled onto the mahogany nightstand, drawn straight toward a crisp, metallic tick-tick-tick pulsing through the dim room. Propped open inside a small ceramic tray was an antique pocket watch, its domed crystal gleaming under the faint amber lamplight. I didn't hesitate—I marched right over, wedged my boot against the tray rim, and gripped the hinged silver lid to tilt it into view. Beneath the glass, slender black hands ticked methodically across a ring of crisp Roman numerals. I leaned in and pressed my palm flat against the cold surface, feeling the rapid, rhythmic tremor of the internal gears tapping directly into my fingertips.