The Sleeping Top

A small turned-wood spinning top lay rested beside a stone bench along the garden terrace. I knelt down quietly to inspect its craftsmanship, testing the balance of the tapered timber between two fingers. The grain was turned true, anchored by a brass spindle at its base. Bracing my boots against the smooth granite slab, I aligned the stem between both palms. With a sharp, disciplined snap of my hands, I set the wood into motion. It gripped the stone instantly, blurring into such steady rotation that it appeared completely motionless. I kept still, letting the quiet hum of the spin meet the afternoon breeze.