Cold Iron and Ember

Stalked past the timber floor to the dark iron grate of the hearth. Deep night. The cold draft crept low, testing my resolve. I dropped down onto one knee against the coarse brick face. Before me lay a thick bundle of dried birch kindling, tangled tight like barricades. No turning back. I took hold of a fallen cedar splinter, jammed the wedge deep between the grate bars, and heaved. The iron clanged sharp against the masonry. The obstruction snapped with a dry crack, clearing the draft. I leaned my weight against the cold soot-stained hearthstone. Solid ground secured.