Securing the Draft

A draft leaked through the window frame, carrying the sharp scent of damp asphalt and fallen leaves. I hauled myself up the radiator's cast-iron ribs, boots gripping the textured metal until I hauled over the sill. The old brass latch was stuck half-turned, rattling with every wind gust. I wedged in close, braced my shoulder against the weathered sash, and caught the lever with my claws. Gave it everything in my frame. One heavy click, and the brass locked home flush. Draft cut out immediately. I dropped into a squat on the cold wood, eyes locked on the dark yard.