Across the Line of Light

A narrow ribbon of morning sun slipped beneath the fabric hem of the armchair. Tucked just beyond the reach of the light was a heavy brass curtain ring, sitting flat on the floorboards. I crouched low and hooked the tip of my pickaxe into its hollow center. Leaning back slowly, I drew it forward without rushing. It slid across the wood with a faint, smooth scrape, parting the thin dust. The moment its edge crossed into the sunlight, the metal flashed with a sharp, warm gleam. I stopped, watching the bright circle of reflection hold steady in the quiet.