The Right Fit at Last

Dragging that mud-caked box all the way up the back porch wasn't easy, but leaving it in the dirt was out of the question. I hauled it onto the kitchen table and scraped the verdigris out of the padlock's keyway with the tip of an old fork. The tarnished key from behind the shed slid right in. It resisted for half a second before giving a heavy, bone-jarring *snap* as the shackle popped free. I wrenched the creaking lid back. Resting on a bed of dry flannel wasn't rotting junk, but a collapsible brass pocket spyglass and a folded canvas sketch of the grounds. Guess this house finally gave up one of its secrets.