Cadence of the Glasshouse

A step from the damp brick threshold brought me onto the slatted cedar staging bench inside the glasshouse. It was warm beneath the canopy of broad fronds. Holstering my sidearm, I sat against the curved flank of an overturned terracotta pot, letting the midday heat settle into the wool of my coat. Directly overhead, condensation gathered along an iron glazing bar. Every six seconds, a single clear bead broke free, striking the center of an aged zinc saucer with a quiet, hollow ping. Predictable. Measured. No correction required. I rested both gloved hands on my knees, allowing the perimeter to keep its own disciplined rhythm.