You exit the shop, crossing the alley lit by the afternoon sun filtering through frosted panes to a narrow nook between a shoe store and a second-hand vintage boutique. The extra warmth caresses your face for a few seconds before you are cloaked by shadow once again. A few paces in, a cramped elevator waits with its doors ajar.
You pause outside the doors and look down. A wink of silver catches your eye, and you drop to one knee to take a closer look. A black fountain pen with a glossy barrel, silver clip and trim lays at an angle under the tracks. The exposed crevice is wide enough to slide your fingers in and extract the item from its precarious spot.
It isn't yours (or is it?), but it feels like it could be.