A Bed in the Tin

I slipped back inside through the door gap as night rolled in, my boots quiet against the floorboards. I was ready to rest, but the sofa felt too vast tonight. On the coffee table, right beside a coaster, someone had left an empty rectangular mint tin with the lid propped slightly open. I hesitated, nudging the metal edge until it clicked wide. Inside, a discarded paper napkin was folded into a soft, textured white pad. I climbed over the brushed metal lip, slipped my tiny phone into the corner groove where the violet stamp gleamed softly, and sat down on the paper fold, letting my shoulders finally drop.