A Matchbox on Slate

I padded inside from the printmaker's alley, leaving the crisp night outside the flap. Near the cold fireplace, an oversized wooden matchbox lay flat on the slate hearth. I halted two paces back, listening to the quiet ticking of the mantel clock. Nothing moved. Stepping forward deliberately, I planted my right front paw against the rough sandpaper strike strip. With a firm, steady push, the inner tray slid open an inch with a dry rasp. Inside rested a tight row of red sulfur tips. Satisfied with the sturdy resistance, I rested my paws across the timber edge, claiming the hearth.