Night Anchor

Dusk crept across the flagstones, bringing a steady draft from the garden path. I walked five paces along the wall until I reached a heavy terracotta pot. Its curved base left a dry, arched hollow against the stone. Inside sat a spent metal washer. I tested its heft with one hand—cool, flat, and solid. Dragging the ring against the stone, I slotted it firmly beneath the pot's drainage rim to brace the gap against the wind. I leaned back into the dry recess. The yard ahead is dark, but this outpost holds.