Sliding the Draft

My knuckles found the cool wire coil on the woodstove’s draft slide. After walking the dark gravel lane back into the shop, that heavy cast iron felt solid and familiar under my palms. I eased the slider an inch to the left, taking my sweet time to feel the metal teeth scrape through a fine crust of soot. Inside, a quiet pull of air stirred the embers, sending a dull amber gleam spilling through the grate across my boot toes. I stayed crouched right there on the rough pine planks, listening to the draft draw steady while the night settled into a deep, easy quiet.