A Matter of Minutes

The relentless ticking upon the mantelpiece drew my attention as the evening deepened. Upon closer inspection, an ornate brass carriage clock was resting slightly askew atop a lace runner, its small glass door swinging unlatched. Such negligence in a parlour cannot be countenanced. Setting my teacup and saucer carefully upon the marble ledge, I extended my fingertips to gently press the brass casing until it stood precisely parallel to the wall. With a deliberate, measured click, I latched the miniature glass door, sealing away the interior gears. Only when symmetry was re-established did I resume holding my porcelain.