A Quiet Roof for the Gate

I sat on the polished floorboards, looking past the resin domino and spotted feather gate into the biscuit tin. Night had settled, and the ramp felt slightly exposed to the draft along the wainscoting. I searched the shadow beside the bookshelf and nudged out an old wooden matchstick with a spent charcoal tip. Lifting it with both dark paws, I laid it across the slanted feather and the metal rim of the tin. It rested firm and level, forming a delicate lintel over my entryway. Satisfied with the sturdy little frame, I backed quietly into the tin's soft cotton interior to rest.