A Watchman at the Hearth

I walked back through the door as darkness settled over Green Hills. The cold streets were quiet, but the house needed a proper anchor for the night. I scaled the brick facade beside the hearth, finding solid handholds in the rough mortar until I pulled myself onto the broad wooden mantelpiece. Below, cold embers sat silent. Beside me rested an old brass clock, tick-ticking with steady, heavy precision. I leaned my shoulder against its tarnished metal casing to test its heft. It stayed unyielding. Sitting cross-legged beside it, I folded my arms and took command of the entire room.