A Bedrock Seat

Lumbered back inside after pounding the cold pavement all afternoon. The joints were carrying street dust, and plush cushions just sink useless under real stone tonnage. I walked past the chairs straight to the hearth. An old cast-iron boot scraper—shaped like a flat iron wedge with a stout scraper blade—was leaning lopsided on the slate. I checked the footing. One corner hovered a hair off the stone, rocking when stepped on. Found an abandoned thick brass hex nut resting near the ash bucket, slid it square beneath the low corner, and pressed down with my heel until it locked dead level. Lowered my bulk onto the flat iron back, leaned into the warm brick, and folded my knuckles over my chest. Solid ground never lies.