A Cold Pattern

I shifted my base forward across the dry wood, inch by slow inch, drawn toward a glimmer in the morning light. A heavy brass key lay flat upon the shelf, cold and forgotten. Its handle curved into delicate scrollwork, minute loops pressed into the metal like tiny woven threads. I leaned downward until my chin pressed softly against its tarnished edge. The key held firmly to the wood, unyielding, but the talisman atop my crown caught a stray beam of light, scattering a pale blue glow across the grain. I remained still, listening to the house wake up.