The Brass Button

An antique brass floor indicator arched above the iron elevator doors, its heavy pointer resting at three. I needed to head up. Climbing onto the marble baseboard beside the frame gave me the height I needed. The round call button sat recessed in a cold brass plate, unlit and waiting. I planted my boots firmly on the narrow ledge, leaned my entire torso forward, and pressed both palms against the metal disc. A muffled mechanical clunk answered deep in the wall. The amber backlight flickered on beneath my hands, and overhead, the distant thrum of counterweights began to stir.