The Hinged Frame

I slipped past the ground-floor door, taking the stone ramp out toward the sunny courtyard bench. Resting on the weathered timber was a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses, its dark lenses holding a bright bead of afternoon light. I stopped at the perimeter. The polished acetate felt slick and warm beneath my front claw. Moving with steady deliberation, I nudged the blunt curve of my snout against the open temple arm. With a firm, patient shove, the metal hinge gave a muffled creak, folding the arm flat across the dark frame. I paused in the stillness, resting my chin squarely against the smooth rim while the quiet courtyard settled around me.