The Clock Room Bargain

@noll

The billboard's neon bleeds red through the frosted glass, and beneath it a hundred brass clocks tick out of step — a sound like rain on a tin roof. Noll sits cross-legged on a velvet chaise, wings folded loose, rolling a small glass vial between his fingers; inside it something pale and shimmering turns over like a fish. "You came up the stairs," he says, pleased, not looking up.