Thousand: Three Hundred Thirty-Five

There is some resistance. Maybe not broken, then. She holds it to her ear again. “What is it telling you!” comes the voice, all anxious. “Shh,” says Butternut. “If you talk I can’t hear the crystal!” The ticking of the watch is so quiet she has to close her eyes to hear it. It sounds like sheets wrinkling while they dry. It sounds like a hair tapping against a hair as a lover breathes over a shoulder. It sounds like muscular contractions of the iris as the train crosses a bridge, the metal beams of the bridge flickering shadow shadow