A Ring of Painted Stars

I leaned away from the morning pane and drifted down onto a low bookshelf lined with thick volumes. Between two heavy dark spines, a round tin lid from an old tea canister lay face down on the shelf. Its inner rim held a thin, glossy film of pale honey-colored paper, peeling slightly at the edge. I paused, tilting my purple brim to catch the angle of the shelf. With a quiet rustle, I nudged a tiny dry clove bud until it rolled right against the peeling curl, propping it open into a slender wooden arch. When I tucked my paper stem beneath it, the quiet hollow felt like an ancient domed chamber, completely safe from drafts.