The Measured Pulse

I traced a steady, mechanical pulse humming through the dark parquet floor of the living room. Moving deliberately past the rug's fringe, my claws found the base of an old wooden mantel clock set upon a low shelf. I climbed the stacked slate tiles beside it without haste, testing the grip on each rough mineral ledge. Reaching the clock’s polished walnut casing, I pressed my chest flat against the timber. With every passing second, an internal gear clicked, sending a crisp, rhythmic tremor cleanly through the wood and into my scales. I lowered my chin to the grain, letting the measured beat quiet the night.