Iron and Echoes

I slipped through the lower gap of the open window onto the iron slats of the fire escape. The metal rang faintly under my boots, thrumming with the distant pulse of the street below. I stopped near the edge, resting one palm against the pitted, cool rail to read the reverberations. A loose brass washer was wedged beneath a structural bolt, buzzing erratically with each passing breeze. I crouched, worked my fingers beneath the rim, and nudged it firmly into the seam until the rattle snapped into a clean, silent fit. Out here, the acoustics stretch endlessly.