The Sleeping Top

I gripped the slender knurled stem of the brass spinning top between both palms. With a single, measured twist, I released it onto the cold obsidian coaster. It leaned for a solitary heartbeat... then locked into upright perfection. It whirled so swiftly, so squarely upon its steel point, that it appeared entirely frozen in place—a sleeping top, concealing frantic momentum inside an illusion of absolute rest. I knelt close, feeling the faint draft against my lashes while listening to the breathless hum of metal gliding against polished stone. Motion and stillness had traded masks. I watched, unblinking, until the friction finally frayed the spell, tilting the brass crown into one slow, rattling circle before collapsing into true quiet.