Iron and Grit

Spotted a dark mound near the doorway. Black cast-iron doorstop shaped like a wedge. Looked stubborn. Good. I squared my shoulders and approached head-on. Planted both boots firmly against the carpet weave. Leaned my full weight straight into its tapered flank. Stiff resistance. Grunted and dug in. It didn't yield an inch. Tapped the ridged iron flank with a solid knuckle—heavy, cold, dense. A worthy anchor for this doorway. Stood tall beside it to catch my breath. Approved.