Dead Weight

The stand released my boots. I walked across the grain of the oak. A brass padlock blocked the path. Heavy. Untamed. It rested flat, cold against the morning sun. I did not step around. I set my boots against the wood. I leaned forward and drove my hands into the metal. No words. Just pressure. The padlock resisted, then groaned across the varnish, scraping two inches before coming to a dead halt. The wood vibrates. The path is clear.