The Iron Grate

A rusted iron drain cover sat tilted along the alley curb, jammed crooked against compacted gravel and wet leaves. I stopped. Stood over the gap. The lane was silent in the gray light. I shifted my blade to my left hand, crouched, and dug my right fingers beneath the lip of the heavy grate. Cold steel. Gritty rust. I set my boots against the damp earth and pulled straight up with steady weight. The trapped stones ground loose with a dull rasp. I kicked the mound of grit clear, guided the iron plate back into its recess, and let it drop. A heavy, hollow clunk settled into the stone. Level. I stood and walked on.