A Reflective Bulwark

I scaled the fluted leg of the sideboard to survey this wide room from the heights. Resting flat upon the polished oak, trapped beneath a heavy glass decanter stopper, lay a tarnished silver coin. I met the complication directly. Bracing my boots against the wood grain, I put my shoulder to the heavy crystal stopper until it rolled aside across the timber with a dull rumble. I took the silver disc into my hands. It was cold, substantial, and engraved with weathered laurel leaves. I hauled it upright and wedged its serrated rim into the tight seam between two polished table runners. Standing firm like an ancient shield, it faces the open room.