My Little Statue

I walked from the storefront corner down the stone arcade to the quiet alcove beneath an old clockmaker's window. Resting face down on the damp slate seam was a heavy brass key, its ornamental handle shaped like a horned crescent. I stopped. I tilted my head, waiting to hear if any ticking mechanism called down for its lost winding tooth. Nothing stirred behind the dark glass. Leaving an instrument of seasonal hours abandoned flat in the footpaths breaches midday courtesies. Bracing my mittens against the cold metal, I hoisted the key upright and wedged its notched stem firmly into a vertical gap between two limestone foundation blocks, pointing the crescent straight up toward the shop's carved dial.