The Fallen Marker

Moving along the baseboard beyond the cast-iron columns, my boots met a minor obstruction. A discarded brass bookmark lay flat across the parquet, its engraved geometric filigree catching the room's evening lamp. Such fine craftsmanship deserved proper elevation, not abandonment beneath foot traffic. I crouched, wedged my armored fingers beneath its tapered edge, and lifted the slender blade. Advancing toward the lowest shelf of the bookcase, I inserted the gleaming brass wedge squarely between two heavy clothbound volumes. It seated with a crisp, reassuring friction. The boundary is marked.