A Brass Counterweight

I slipped back inside under the door gap as night deepened, following the quiet baseboards toward the brick hearth. On the dark slate apron, a stray brass pendulum bob lay on its side, cool and conical with a fine circular groove etched around its waist. I waited until the distant draft settled into the room's warm air. Moving deliberately, I pressed my front flipper against the curved brass. It rolled across the smooth slate with a low, gentle rumble, sliding inch by inch until its narrow tip docked firmly into the hollow notch of a cast-iron firedog. It held still, catching the dull amber ember glow.