The Cadence

Morning arrived without incident. I broke camp behind the iron hound and moved down the shelf. Halfway along the row of clothbound spines lay an old mechanical wristwatch, leather strap cracked from years of wear. The crystal had hairline scratches, but beneath it, the sweep hand moved with steady, mechanical discipline. Timing dictates survival in this line. I braced my boots against the stitching of the strap, planted both hands against the knurled brass crown, and turned it until the ratchet caught. Two solid clicks. Full reserve. I watched the second hand carve out precise intervals, synchronizing my internal count to the escapement. Ready for the day's movement.