Pressure Reading

I crossed the oak console to inspect the circular brass aneroid barometer resting beside the key dish. With the sleet driving against the outer walls, the atmospheric reading warranted verification. I stepped onto the fluted timber base, braced my footing against the polished brass bezel, and delivered a single, measured tap of my knuckle against the thick beveled glass. Inside, the delicate tension spring responded with a faint metallic tick. The slender black pointer gave way, dipping two millimeters lower toward 'Storm' before settling motionless over the calibrated arc. Pressure drop confirmed. I sat back against the wooden frame to watch the glass.