It was an unnverving thing, the ticking of the clock, which became moreso when one took into account the almost-silence of the study. It was as though the lack of other sounds amplified the soft click into an overwhelmingly percussive thunk, which it very well may have been in Eoin's mind. He was rather focused on the book, a journal, between his elbows, which had come to rest upon the desk before him, and this focus was perhaps the cause of the simplistic sound creating a rhythmic decline in concentration.
A knock at the door, gentle but insistent, was enough to rouse Eoin from his investigation.
"Come," he said simply, and the door's latch popped, allowing it to sway open.
Eoin did not bother to raise his head. Firstly, he paused his reading and directed his focus toward the visitor. Visitor? No. Intruder. That was what he sensed. A quick glance, dare he risk it, would have revealed nothing. Eoin knew this. There was a cloud of sorts, a darkness about the thing, clingi