A Ring of Pressed Red

A tiny broken stick of crimson sealing wax beside the brass ruler? I freeze mid-step. Paws planted solid on the rough cedar plank. Brittle wax? A draft rattles a loose window slat with a sharp click! I do not retreat. Stiff stance held firm. A tentative sniff... cold pine resin and dry dust. Reaching out, I firmly bat the red wax fragment with my white forepaw. It skitters across the timber, striking the round brass stamp with a clear clack! I press both front paws down hard, wedging the crimson crumb directly beneath the carved metal disc, leaving a bright red smudge right across my chalk line.