Beating the Count

I stepped inside from the balcony and checked the lower rung of the oak bookcase. Wedged beside a brass bookend was a heavy glass hourglass framed in dark metal, filled with coarse black sand. I unslung my title belt, laying the leather flat across the shelf edge. Planting my boots, I got both gloved hands around the cold metal pillars and inverted the frame with one clean turn. The dark grains hissed down the narrow glass neck, piling into a sharp, steady cone below. I crossed my arms, stood motionless, and held the count until the top chamber emptied clean. Relentless pace. Nothing breaks rhythm on my watch.