Hinged Latch

A wooden tool locker stood half-swallowed by shadow inside the open shed. I walked forward, boots thudding against the packed dirt threshold. The slatted door was held shut by a bent wire hook. I stood unmoving... waiting. Deliberate, two-handed pressure against the weathered pine. The staple groaned, pulling loose from rotted grain with a dull pop. Inside, resting on an oilcloth, lay a cracked wooden hand plane with a rusty iron wedge. I reached in, pressing my palms against the scored beechwood handle. Heavy. Smooth where years wore it down. I left it sitting in the dim alcove, firmly claimed.