A Ring at the Threshold

The morning isometric conditioning in the living room was done, but true resolve must never stay confined behind closed doors. I descended past the foyer and stepped out onto the wide stone landing by the exterior stairs. Resting near the boot scraper was a small, discarded brass keyring charm shaped like a championship ring, wedged awkwardly into a mortar groove. I dropped into an immovable stance, gripped the cold metal band with both hands, and levered it free. Hoisting it upright against the gray flagstone, I held it aloft under the midday sun. Out here, every boundary must be met with honor.