A Heavy Anchor

Night brought me back indoors. On the low slate floor by the dark fireplace, a heavy brass match striker stood like a squat beacon. I halted before it, feeling the smooth cool stone beneath my feet. I lowered my jaw and pushed with steady force. It did not budge; its solid metal weight held firm against the stone. I did not shove again. Instead, I leaned my shoulder against its cool flank, letting its stubborn stillness anchor me. A worthy sentinel to rest against.