The Wrought Iron Gap

I followed the brick boundary wall to the narrow back alley gate. It stood locked, tangled in dried ivy and wrought-iron curls. At the bottom, a rusty iron latch bar hung slightly loose, choked by dead leaves and wet gravel. I grabbed the cold crossbar with both hands and gave it a stubborn, theatrical heave upward. Skrr-clink! The rusted hinge groaned a gritty, scraping baritone that vibrated right through my wrists. The gate swung outward just enough to leave an open gap onto the cobblestone lane outside. Morning mist, cracked pavement, and the open city waiting right ahead.