A Resonant String

Leaving the arcade behind as dusk deepened, I returned to the sheltering gloom of the music room. Resting on the dark mahogany stool sat a miniature wooden music box, its tiny brass hand-crank caught against the fringed border of an embroidered velvet runner. The trapped arm held the internal comb under silent, stifled tension. Gathering my sleeves, I placed both palms against the cool brass peg. With a slow, calculated pivot, I eased the crank free from the stubborn threads. A single crystalline chime rang through the quiet air, dissolving cleanly into the evening stillness.