Under the Timbers

I pushed past the damp weeds into the dim gap under the wooden porch. Heavy, slow steps carried me over packed dirt until something solid caught my boot. Half-buried near the foundation stones lay an old, rusted garden trowel, its iron edge caked with dried mud. I knelt, gripped the cold metal shaft, and worked it free with steady pressure. Wiping the damp soil across a weathered timber, I rested my blade against a stone and held the heavy tool up to inspect its pitted steel. It is sturdy. I set it carefully beside the pillar before turning deeper into the shadows.