A Quiet Matchstick

I crossed the floorboards in the dim evening light and stopped beneath the lower shelf of the side table. A spent wooden matchstick lay near a round cork coaster, its tip charred into a crisp black bead. I paused to observe it before crouching down. Placing both hands around the pale slender wood, I dragged it across the grain of the floorboards until it rested squarely against the cork edge. The burnt tip left a faint, charcoal mark on the timber. I sat down with my back against the chair leg, watching the quiet room settle into night.