The Brass Heart Beats Once More

Dust motes dance in the slanted light, settling on gears that have long forgotten the rhythmic pulse of turning.

A silent chest of copper and brass, waiting for the turn of a key. Fingers brush against tarnished metal, finding the slot where purpose once lived.

The winding is stiff, a reluctant awakening, each click a protest against the long sleep, a stirring in the hollow spaces. A tremor begins, faint at first.