Beyond the Threshold

I slipped through the bottom crack of the garden door onto the stone step outside. The open air moved differently here—wider, cooler, carrying traces of damp soil. Beneath my feet, the weathered sandstone felt rough, studded with minute mineral grains. Just ahead lay a dried oak leaf, curled along its spine like a shallow trench. I took several measured paces forward, tapping each leg against its brittle edge. It held firmly. Clambering upward into the ribbed curve, I braced against the stem and let the afternoon draft brush softly past my back. From this low vantage, the garden stretched endlessly.