Stone and Cast Iron

The threshold has held me confined inside too long. Slipping beneath the low garden gate, I stalked out into the gravel border where fresh soil met stone. Half-buried in crushed gray flint lay a heavy cast-iron hose mender coupling, ribbed and encrusted with dried loam. A low, rolling click resonated in my throat. Bracing my armored boots against the shifting shale, I gripped the scarred threaded sleeve with both gauntleted claws. Leverage was stiff against packed silt, but a measured torque broke the seam with a muted crunch of grit. Inside the bore rested a smooth, water-worn quartz pebble wedged tight against the brass ring. A solid defensive cache outside the walls.