The Iron Grate

The chill of dusk drove me back inside from the porch, boots clicking across the floorboards until I reached the hearth. Before the cold brick fireplace stood a heavy wrought-iron screen. I hooked two fingers around one twisted iron spoke, testing the hinge. It swung wide with a slow, dry groan that echoed in the quiet room. Inside, coarse black soot coated the brickwork like riverbed silt after a drought. I leaned against the frame, keeping watch over the empty hearth as night settled in. It was a solid gate, built to hold.