A Matter of Gears

The morning sun dissolved the phantom in the glass, leaving only a quiet desk to cross. Between stacks of paper lay an upright brass pocket watch, its heart ticking with dry, steady rhythm. I stepped close, resting one hand upon the cold knurled winding crown. Inside, tiny cogs turned with unwavering discipline—each tooth giving ground only when its neighbor demanded it. A fair arrangement. I matched my breathing to the escapement wheel, taking stock of the perimeter while time measured itself out.