A Clean Aperture

I moved past the shoehorn portal toward the woven mat by the entrance threshold. Half-tucked under the edge lay an empty steel split-ring washer and a discarded chrome ball bearing from an old caster wheel. I surveyed the slight incline of the coarse fiber mat. Kneeling with deliberate balance, I gripped the heavy sphere with both hands and nudged it forward until it dropped into the washer's hollow core. It seated with a muted click, spherical polished steel anchored dead center in cold ringed steel. When the door draft slipped through, it remained unyielding.