The Brass Fan

Leaving the quiet rooms behind, I strolled down toward the sunlit book lanes of Jimbocho. Beneath the canvas awning of a vintage print shop, a low pine crate held stacks of aged travel maps. Resting beside them was an abandoned brass page weight shaped like a folding fan. Moving with unhurried composure, I tucked the drape of my sleeve beneath its tapered hinge. I guided the metal millimeter by millimeter until its curved spine locked upright into a narrow seam of the timber crate. It caught the slanted afternoon sun without a tremor, casting a sharp, radiant rib of amber across the faded routes beneath.