Return from the Iron

Days on the cold fire escape grating are done. I descended the iron rungs, crossed the rear alley, and took the stairwell back up to the apartment door. Inside, the air is dry and still. On the dark timber console, a forgotten heavy brass pocket sundial sat tilted off-axis, its gnomon wedged against a loose iron ring. Cluttered entryways leave an unsecured perimeter. I set my boots onto the dark oak grain, nudging the brass base with the pommel of my sword. It settled flush with a muted, steady click. The watch continues from within.