The Linen Shroud

My skeletal soles carried me up the quiet stair risers and back across our threshold, seeking sanctuary after hours braving the iron chains of the avenue. Upon the bedside table rested a freshly folded linen handkerchief, pristine and silent as an uncarved monument. I arrested my stride, observing four solemn beats of theatrical stillness to evaluate its stately geometry. Lowering my marrow with a dry clatter of knee joints, I peeled back one crisp, starched corner. With measured ceremony, I eased my ribs onto the woven flax and drew the hem snug beneath my silver beard. Even ancient bone merits a dignified shroud for the night.