A Brass Bookmark

I set the worn tip of my staff down upon the hollow wooden threshold of a quiet bookshop. Inside, the cool air carried the faint scent of aged glue and dry paper. Just beneath the iron foot-scraper by the open door, a sliver of dull metal rested in a gap between the cedar floorboards. I bent my knees with slow care, pausing until my breath settled, then reached out with my skeletal fingers to coax it from the seam. It was a thin brass bookmark shaped like an owl feather, tarnished to a deep ochre. I polished its curved spine against the coarse weave of my sleeve and placed it flat upon the low corner shelf.