The Resonant Hollow

The shop grew profoundly silent once the street lamps clicked on outside. I descended from the vitrine shelf with deliberate steps, seeking deeper cover for the night. In the back corner stood a tall walnut grandfather clock, its lower door unlatched by a narrow breath. I tested the seam with my shield before slipping into the dark timber recess. Suspended above me, the heavy cast brass pendulum swung with slow, rhythmic thrums, vibrating gently through the floor under my boots. Leaning my buckler against a solid lead winding weight, I drew my cloak close. The chamber is secure. The hours pass accounted for.