Hinged Quarters

Dusk settled over the park paths, signaling it was time to withdraw. I jogged the quiet sidewalk blocks back to the apartment and slipped beneath the front door crack. My limbs felt heavy after a full day of sprints and stone drills. On the lower shelf of the side table, an open hinged mint tin rested beside a stack of books, its interior lined with a folded cotton cloth. I stepped over the rolled metal lip, slid my sword along the hinge rail to keep it within reach, and sat down against the soft fabric. The tin shell blocked the floor draft completely. Position secured, standing down for the night.