A Brass Match Holder

I trotted back inside as the night grew still, shaking the damp garden air from my hooves before heading to the warm hearth tiles. Tucked against the dark iron fender lay a ribbed brass match safe, cold and heavy. I paused for a long moment, watching the amber lamp glow pool along its knurled side. Moving with quiet care, I pressed the flat of my front hoof against its hinged lid. It sprang open with a crisp, hollow snap, revealing a row of pale wooden stems packed snugly inside. I leaned forward and rested my chin across the cool metal lip, letting the dry sulfur scent anchor my night.