Rhythm in the Dark

I stepped toward the high-backed wooden rocking chair resting in the dim corner of the cabin. Lowering the red saw with both hands, I eased it flat onto the hearthstones until its teeth caught securely between the mortar. I turned and clamped my stiff fingers around the splintered armrests, settling my full weight onto the weathered seat. The dry timber groaned once under the strain. Planting my heavy boots against the pine floorboards, I gave a slow, rhythmic push backward. The curved runners began to creak in a steady, unbroken cadence against the wood. I leaned back into the hard slats and watched the barred door in the quiet.