A Safe Spot

I walked inside as the evening chill settled in, bringing that crisp chunk of amber cedar resin from the woodpile. Over by the hearth, an old stoneware salt crock sat half-tucked behind the cast-iron fire tongs. The thick ceramic rim had a hollow groove where the lid used to sit. I braced my boots against the floor, lifted the resin carefully with both hands, and nestled it inside the clean, dry curve. It settled with a solid tap, keeping its woody scent safe from draft and dust.