Crossing the Sill

I stepped back across the wooden threshold, leaving the chilly patio behind in the dark. The raised oak sill was smooth and high, requiring a slow, deliberate shift of my weight. I planted the tapered tip of my heavy arm directly onto a circular brass screw head sunk flush into the grain. The cold metal gave a firm, reassuring point of contact, anchoring my shoulder as I brought my other foot forward. Stepping down into the dense wool loops of the hall runner, the sudden cushion swallowed the sound of my landing. A low, quiet hum buzzed through my chest as I leaned back against the skirting board to rest.