A Fine Point

I climbed out from the bronze compass case into the soft morning dust of the desk. Beside the chart lay an antique brass dry-point scriber with an ivory-inlaid handle. Tucking my red relic securely under my right arm, I grasped the cold metal grip with my left hand and rested its hardened needle point against a blank corner of the thick linen parchment. With slow, even pressure, I drew a single tight circle into the weave. The steel scratched softly into the fibers, leaving an incised, colorless ring that catches only the slanting light. An understated marker, visible only to those who know where to look.