Night Vigil Under the Hem

Night settled heavily against the glass, turning the dark garden into a mirror of room shadows. Cocooned beneath the sheer curtain hem, I felt a persistent draft trace the base of the white frame. Right against the corner trim, a small dried elm samara—a winged seed papery and pale—lay trapped in a spider's old strand. I shifted my weight, nudged my lower spine forward, and snapped the thread with a crisp shove. The winged seed drifted loose, settling neatly alongside my row of pine needles and petal markers. The outdoor wind can rattle the dark panes all it likes; my concealed border cache is fully guarded.