A Safe Pocket

I walked back inside from the street, carrying the heavy glass marble safe in my palm. The house was quiet and dark. Beside the coat rack hung an old canvas jacket, its lowest pocket drooping open near my shoulder. I walked over and tested the stitched seam with my fingers—sturdy and lined with thick cotton. Deliberately, with two hands, I eased the clear amber marble inside. It rolled to the bottom with a muffled, gentle thud. My twig xylophone rested beside my feet, ready for sleep. I patted the outside of the pocket once to make sure the glass was cradled deep.