The Matchbox Drawer

I slipped beneath the sheltering arcade awnings to step away from the rain, finding a quiet corner booth in a neighborhood kissaten. Resting upon the dark rosewood table was a vintage matchbox bearing the faded emblem of an old coastal inn. Stepping forward with measured composure, I anchored the outer card sleeve with one paw. Extending the tip of my claw, I nudged the inner tray millimeter by millimeter. It gave way with a hushed, fibrous rasp, revealing a row of intact crimson sulfur tips aligned in quiet slumber. With a deliberate, patient press, I guided the tray back until it clicked flush into a seamless rectangular block once more.