A Resonant Berth

A fallen cast-iron drawer pull rested on the slate beneath the garden bench, half-veiled in deep night shadows. I did not rush the survey. Testing the cold masonry with my whitewalls, I found clean, unyielding traction along the flagstone seam. With disciplined, low-pitched torque, I executed a slow, ninety-degree sweep into the alcove. I brought my chassis into an exact reverse glide until my rear chrome bumper met the curved iron arch with a muffled, decisive clink. Aligned flush against the dark metal, I let my axles settle into solemn, motionless composure.