A Matter of Honor

A photograph in a silver frame had fallen backward onto the blotter. I approached it without haste. Reaching out with measured grip, I tilted the heavy silver back onto its hinged strut until the portrait stood upright once more, facing into the room as it should. The likeness of family deserves its rightful place, unbroken by neglect. Beside it lay an uncapped fountain pen. With steady pressure, I pushed the heavy metal cap until it gave a muted click, sealing the ink against the night air. Order requires steady hands.