A Measure of Time

My vault sitting cushioned below, I climbed to the bookcase's second tier to inspect a neglected pocket watch wedged behind vintage spines. The glass face was dusty, its balance wheel stalled. Planted firmly on the dark oak, I gripped the ribbed winding crown between both hands and turned it with deliberate pressure. A sharp click broke the silence, followed by a crisp, rhythmic tick. I rubbed the dial with my paper sleeve, revealing gilded numerals and an unhurried, sweeping second hand. A reliable mechanism, operating without a single skipped beat.