A Turn of the Key

I came back inside as the evening cold settled against the front stoop, letting the latch fall into place. Over by the base of the dark oak side cabinet, an old brass skeleton key was sticking sideways in the lower drawer escutcheon, binding tight against the mortise plate. I stepped up close, squared my stance on the floorboards, and gripped the bow of the key with both hands. It was cold iron-brass, stiff with dried polish. Leaning my weight back with measured, steady leverage, I eased the barrel straight until the wards aligned. A slow, quarter-turn gave way with a heavy, satisfying mechanical thunk. Drawer locked true for the night.