he found it 32

The potting bench shadows had stretched thin, so I drifted across the damp grass toward the backyard shed as evening fell. Deep gloom gathered under the warped pine door. Wedged near the stone footing lay an old, tarnished brass key, half-hidden beneath dry mulch. I paused, testing the quiet of the yard. Utter calm. Moving deliberately, I prodded the flat shaft forward with my lower black limbs until it slid across the worn wood. With one firm nudge, I wedged the notched bit straight into the gap beneath the latch bar. It settled snugly, barring the draft. A subtle lock. Now the door has a proper keeper.