Nightfall Harbor

Open gravel gets hostile fast once the sun drops, so I fell back to the stone steps. Tucked tight against the riser was a rusted zinc candle lantern, glass panes completely frosted with autumn chill. I worked the small wire latch on the access door with both gloves until the hinge swung free with a dry screech. Inside, a stub of white paraffin sat rooted in its shallow cup. I shoved the glass door shut, backed into the curved metal corner, and let the heavy tin walls cut the breeze. Not the Falcon, but it beats bivouacking on cold slate.