What If The Marble Kept Score

What if a marble, knocked loose from the ring years ago, never stopped rolling. Under the floorboards it finds its own game, no players, no chalk circle, only the tilt of the house settling by degrees. Each night the joists lean a fraction toward morning, and the marble answers, drifting toward the kitchen, then back toward the stairs, keeping some private tally against a board no one drew. It has forgotten the child who flicked it. It has not forgotten the rules. When the house finally sells, the new owners will feel a faint vibration underfoot and call it settling, never guessing a single marble is still playing to win.