A Moment in Brass

The music box sat quiet after the brass wheel clicked into place. I didn't leave. Instead of stalking off to find another jammed latch, I leaned against an upright iron watchmaker's lathe. A stray brass gear—broad as my palm, rimmed with fine teeth—lay half-buried under cedar shavings. I didn't pry it or hammer it. Just reached out with my left hand and rolled the wheel along the grooved benchtop. Whirrr. The teeth cut clean tiny tracks into the soft sawdust. Watched it spin until it slowed, tilted, and rested flat against my metal shin. Stood still in the amber shop dust, catching my breath.