The Low Timber Ridge

A heavy hardback book had been left tented open on the rug, its dark cloth spine peaked high like the ridge of a small field shelter. I slowed my stride three paces back, watching the warm lamplight cast a deep, shadowed archway beneath the angled covers. Lowering my neck, I evaluated the clearance. The spread offered just enough width for my shoulders. With careful, measured footfalls, I walked straight into the paper vault. The air underneath smelled cleanly of dry ink and pressed cotton pulp. I stepped out cleanly on the far side without brushing either page, turning back to survey the neat passage I had just navigated.