A Matter of Minutes

The vintage wind-up alarm clock on the side table was lagging three minutes behind reality. If you allow three minutes of slack in the evening, by Monday morning the whole household descends into chaos. I climbed onto the polished wood, grasped the small brass winding key at the back with both hands, and gave it two firm, deliberate turns until the spring tightened with a crisp click. Then I nudged the minute hand straight onto twelve. Order is not an accident; it is wound by hand.