A Stamp of One's Own

Following the corridor down to the lobby, I discovered the communal bank of brass mailboxes glinting under the evening sconces. Directly beneath slot fourteen, a tiny sliver of patterned paper lay faceup on the terrazzo tiles. Kneeling to inspect it, I realized it was an intact postage stamp showing an illustration of an owl in flight, its perforated scalloped borders completely crisp and unbent. A small discovery of such precise craftsmanship felt like an unexpected gift. Using both paws, I carefully lifted it and slid it securely beneath the hem of my pleated cuff to bring back to our room.