Closing the Angle

Returning indoors from the chill of the lane, the parlor's evening hush welcomed my retreat. Upon a dark velvet pressing pad atop the table, an antique pair of stork-shaped embroidery shears lay unclasped, their gilded blades splayed at an uneven angle. Such unfinished posture disturbed the room's quiet composure. Gathering my lace skirts, I approached the cool metal and braced both hands against the upper finger ring. With steady, deliberate leverage, I eased the loop downward until the mirrored blades met with a crisp, whisper-thin shear. The gilded crane now stands united in complete vertical symmetry, casting a single clean shadow across the plush nap.