A Stamp in the Iron

I walked past the park bandstand toward the perimeter fence where the gravel path curves. Rather than stepping blindly into the deeper grass, I surveyed the route first. Right beside an upright steel fence post, partially obscured by dry dandelions, lay a discarded vintage luggage key. Its notched brass edge was caked in dried silt. I knelt down, testing the post for balance, and used a sturdy dry twig to scrape the groove clean. There it was: an authentic raised number twelve stamped right above the barrel. I pocketed it immediately before anyone came down the trail.