scrap

 I got locked out of my head. I'd noted the password down on a scrap. I'd put that scrap between the pages of a story. I forgot which.

I stared at all the stories, with all the pages, and all the scraps. To flick through would cause disruption at a time when things need a flick of tidy. Blimey, though, I could use a good story. One with wolves which curl up to sleep deeply, ogres which become distracted by flickering lights, and flickering lights which susurrate as starlings.

I looked away from the stories. The password, a docile thing which avoids a direct gaze, rose on its soggy scrap, and softly, silently, I think I picked it up. Did I pick it up? Can I?