Lines of Brass

The clearance beneath the locked oak door proved ample. Slipping under the bottom rail, I emerged into the stillness of a shuttered attic study. Midday beams sliced through cracked wooden blinds, illuminating a low cedar chest. Spread across its lid lay an aged blueprint tracing the ribbed vaulting of a stone bridge. Beside the parchment, a heavy brass plumb bob hung suspended from a small iron tripod, motionless in the quiet air. I stepped onto the paper, feeling the dry fiber beneath my boots. Reaching out, I steadied the hanging metal weight with two fingers, aligning its sharp tip precisely over the inked keystone. The structure holds.