A warm, dry breath drifted from the low metal grill beneath the window. I crept close, crouching until my ruffled knees touched the cool floorboards. Through the narrow iron slats, deep darkness murmured back. Between two bars, something shimmered—a fallen chrome hairpin, trapped just out of reach. Slowly, with delicate care, I wedged a slender wooden toothpick through the opening, nudging the pin until it shifted with a tiny, echoing clink. It slid deeper into the warm void, vanishing into the dark. Such lovely, secret slots this room holds.