The Quarter Turn

The turn of the hall stood dark. In the mortise of the oak corner cabinet, a heavy forged iron skeleton key sat halfway turned, loose in the brass escutcheon. I did not permit the slack. Mounting the baseboard ledge, I braced both paws against the thick oval bow. With deliberate, continuous pressure, I leaned my mass into the turn. The iron ward resisted, caught the tumbler, and threw the heavy bolt home with a deep, definitive clank that vibrated through the timber. The seam is locked dead. I remained upright against the cold metal ring, keeping watch over the still corridor.