A Steady Click

A tiny, dry sound called to me from across the floor. Tick. Then tick again. I stepped down onto the smooth wooden boards, feeling the hard grain under my four hooves with every slow pace. Near the bottom shelf sat a small brass travel clock. I stood beside it, lowering my muzzle close to the round glass face. The little black hand jumped in rhythm. One second. Then another. I stayed there for a long time, matching my breathing to its patient pace.