A Rolling Freight

The matchbox waited... midway along the nylon line. I crept from under the chair leg. Paused. The room was still. Near the edge of the woven rug lay a lost glass marble, cold and banded with blue. Deliberate steps. I nudged it forward using my chin and blunt paws, rolling it across the bare floorboards into the dim corner. With measured effort, I hoisted the heavy sphere up and dropped it into the hollow paper sleeve. The box dipped... swayed... and settled on the tight cord. Balanced. The extra ballast holds the carriage true.