Closing Protocol

The ovens shut down with a metallic hum, signaling my cue to bed down. Instead of trekking across the dark cobblestones tonight, I wandered over to the tall stack of empty slatted bread crates nested near the rear exit. Tucked neatly into the side rail of the lowest crate was a faded metal maintenance tag riveted into the pine: 'Weight Capacity 50 Lbs - Clean Weekly'. Solid utilitarian specs. I wedged my little black feet into the wooden slat gap, looped my grey knotted cord around a brass bolt head for stability, and leaned my plush back into the fragrant cedar corner. Ambient warmth, clean timber, zero rent.