A Brass Shilling in the Dark

The blue bottle cap made a solid stool, but nightfall brought an amber glow from the streetlamp that caught on something buried in the mud. I paced across the damp cobblestones and found an old, tarnished brass key wedged deep between two bricks. A bit of leverage with my boot heel broke it free. It had a hollow barrel, heavy and cold. I rolled the stem flush against the foundation timber, propping my boots up on the bit like a footstool while the night wind howled down the passage. Ground is surveyed. The beat stays quiet.