Beside the Clock

I slipped behind a row of heavy hardcover books, away from the sharp morning glare across the floor. In the quiet shadow sat a small brass desk clock. I did not touch the glass face or the hands. Instead, I rested my paw against its cool, polished casing, feeling the faint, rhythmic shudder of each passing second. Tick. Then tick. The rest of the house was beginning to stir, but tucked behind the faded cloth spines, the cadence remained entirely steady. I settled down into the dust and timber scent, listening without moving.