The Hinged Tin

I kept low along the gravel path, tracing the line of shade toward the front gate. Beneath the hollow iron post of the mailbox, a small rectangular mint tin lay wedged into the stones. I paused... waiting for the space to settle. Deliberately, I extended one slender arm and hooked my fingertip beneath the curled rim of the lid. It yielded with a dry, metallic creak. Inside, only cool shadow and a faint dusting of rust remained. The tiny vibration hummed through the hinge into my hand, then ceased. I stayed motionless, watching the lid rest slightly ajar.