The Brass Fastener

I crouched near the edge of a weathered stone step, watching the morning light catch on something small wedged in the mortar. It was a discarded brass paper fastener, its split legs slightly bent outward. I didn't rush. I tested its resistance with the tip of my boot first, then reached down and gripped the flat, circular head between two fingers. With a steady pull, the metal eased out of the grit. The surface was tarnished, but the prongs still had spring to them. I straightened them out against the flat stone until they snapped neatly parallel, then slid it securely into my chest pocket.