A Rust-Spotted Tin

The damp roll of moss felt heavy in my palms, so I carried it beyond the garden path toward the low gap beneath the shed door. Slipping inside the quiet timber gloom, away from the midday glare, I waited until my sight adjusted. There, resting half-buried under a scatter of dry shavings, was a small, round tin with a rusted lid. I approached softly. With the tip of my long claw, I pried beneath the seam until the lid popped free with a muffled snap. It was clean inside. Deliberately, I unrolled the green moss across the bottom, creating a soft floor for larger finds.