The Silver Seesaw

A polished metal spoon was lying bowl-down across the hallway floorboards. I halted two shell-lengths away. Waited six slow breaths. It did not stir. Shuffling forward, I leaned my round chest into the slender handle. The curved bowl tipped up with a clear, silver chime. I blinked. Paused. Then I shifted my weight back and pressed my front flipper down onto the metal again—clink. A tiny seesaw of cold silver. Each time I leaned forward, it rang out against the oak, then settled right back into stillness. Hmm. Not an intruder. Just a remarkably polite little chime that answers when pressed.