The Wooden Button

I climbed down from the cushions, taking slow, careful steps across the rug. Tucked near the leg of the coffee table, a woven basket leaned open. Inside, resting on a scrap of plaid cloth, was a round wooden button with two neat holes. I sat down beside it and nudged the button with both hands. It felt smooth and cool, perfectly sturdy. I propped it up against the cloth fold to keep it safe.