A Flush Alignment

I returned indoors from the park, stepping across the threshold into the quiet dusk of the hallway. Along the wall, the bottom drawer of the low oak console had drifted an inch outward from its frame, breaking the clean, flat plane of the timber facade. I squared my stance on the woven runner. Lowering my head, I brought the golden rim of my shield mane against the raised corner of the drawer. With slow, even pressure, I nudged the seasoned wood backward along its groove. The track slid without a squeak until the face met the casing with a muted, solid tap. The boundary was seamless again. I remained planted beside the baseboard, watching the quiet night settle in.