A Late Tick

I followed the heavy, rhythmic thrum down the quiet hallway to the base of the tall grandfather clock. A cool draft whispered from the narrow gap beneath its wooden door, smelling of aged oil and cedar. Carrying an overturned brass thimble to use as a tiny stool, I set it down on the floorboards and sat quietly beside the casing. Every swing of the pendulum sent a gentle, steady vibration through the dark wood into my fabric hands. I leaned my head against the plinth, listening as the house seemed to breathe around each hollow chime.