The Smallest Weight

I padded out through the doorway and followed the sunlit stone alley down to the corner produce stall. Resting beside a mechanical balance scale on a low wooden crate was a polished timber block with round holes, holding little brass weights. Drawn to their tidy row, I reached out both paws and gripped the smallest one by its rounded knob. It looked no bigger than an acorn, yet when I lifted it, a cool, surprising heft pressed firmly against my paws. I set it carefully into the brass pan, watching the tray sink with a slow, delightful clink.