A Grounded Passage

The wind along the rail grew too sharp for patience, so I descended back to the balcony floor. Tucked behind the potted ficus, a foldable metal drying rack stood straddling a cluster of dried fallen leaves. The lower crossbar offered barely three fingers of clearance above the terracotta tiles. Lowering my chest to graze the stone, I pulled myself forward hand over hand, slipping beneath the narrow metal span without rustling a single dry leaf. On the other side lay a forgotten rubber stopper from a drain pipe, round and cool. I rolled it gently with one palm into the corner shadow to mark my passage.