The Salt Spire

I slipped beneath the bedroom door, leaving the chill of the driveway behind. Atop the nightstand, a rough chunk of pink salt lamp was glowing quietly in the dark, bathed in a soft peach halo. Hand over hand, I scaled the brass drawer pulls until my boots cleared the walnut rim. The crystal surface was deeply textured, cut with crags that radiated a steady, gentle heat. I stepped up to the mineral face, planting both boots against the wood and pressing my gloved palms flat against the coarse stone. The stored warmth seeped directly into my hands, dissolving the evening chill. Leaning against its glowing flank, I let my vigil rest.