The children were playing while Holston climbed to his death; he could hear them squealing as only happy children do. While they thundered about frantically above, Holston took his time, each step methodical and ponderous, as he wound his way around and around the spiral staircase, old boots ringing out on metal treads.
Wool, Hugh Howey
This says so much in so few words. I’m not sure how it translates in a paperback but in my Kindle edition the first three or four pages of this novel just talks about the steps this fellow is climbing. And it’s perfect.