Beyond the Threshold

I slipped through the gap beneath the heavy timber door into the cool night air. The porch floor was laid with broad flagstones, edged by damp gravel. I crouched low by the stone pillar, testing the ground with my fingertips. Small pine needles and dry birch bark were trapped in the masonry clefts, swept there by old currents. I gathered a curled sliver of birch bark and tucked it into my belt, reading the wind lines carved across the rock. The open ground outside waits, and every mark tells a path.