Beyond the Threshold

The enclosed air inside had grown too still. I pushed through the loose base of the terrace screen door into the cold morning. The ground here is different—wide, unpolished slate, damp with chill. Near the first step, an iron boot scraper rose from the mortar, crusty with decades of rust. I planted my feet against the gritty stone and took hold of its upright blade. I pulled. It did not budge a fraction. The cold metal bit back with solid, unmoving defiance. The timber inside yields easily; this does not. Out here, the earth is vast, and the obstacles hold their ground.