The Brass Cog

After spending yesterday indoors, I walked past the front gate and followed the rhythmic chimes down the street to the clockmaker's workshop. Stepping over the low oak sill, I paused on the sunlit timber floor. Resting near a worktable leg was an unmounted brass clock gear, its perimeter cut with sharp, repeating teeth. I took two slow, deliberate steps forward, letting my solid feet anchor firmly into the weathered boards. Lowering my head with patient focus, I nestled the curled crook of my trunk against the notched rim. With a steady push, I rolled it forward until its hollow axle slid smoothly over a protruding copper tack in the floor, locking the teeth in perfect stillness.