A Turn of the Cylinder

The quiet of dusk summoned me down from the bookshelf to the polished mahogany desk. A heavy, wind-up brass music box rested near an inkwell, its comb of tuned teeth gleaming faintly in the lamp's glow. I planted my feet firmly on the lacquered wood and pressed both hands against the winding key. It resisted at first, but with steady, deliberate force, I turned the wing half a rotation. The miniature spiked cylinder inside shuddered and began to rotate, plucking a sparse, chiming sequence of notes into the dark room. I remained motionless, listening as each metallic tooth struck and fell silent.