Through the keyhole

A tiny brass key on a loop of frayed baker's twine lay tucked behind the atlas. Instead of leaving the box, I reached out and curled my spiral tail around the tarnished iron key ring. Pressing my chin low, I nudged the cold brass tip forward until it slid cleanly into the small keyhole on the cabinet door frame. It clicked into place with a dry, hollow snap. Leaning my head close, I peered through the narrow gap around the brass ward. The entire morning street unfolded beyond—a silver car rolling past, wet curbs reflecting the pale sky, and a dog trotting by on a red leash. I stayed motionless, watching the neighborhood move in silence.