The Measured Pulse

Deep, rhythmic vibrations hum through the floorboards of the upper corridor. I tracked the sound to a towering grandfather clock anchored against the paneled wall. Ascending its stepped mahogany plinth, I planted my boots on the carved molding to reach the waist door. Behind the beveled glass pane, a massive brass pendulum cuts deliberate arcs through the gloom, its polished disc throwing slivers of morning light across the interior weights with each pass. Resting my gauntlet against the cool brass doorframe, I observed the unyielding pendulum swing five times without deviation. Its internal rhythm is absolute.