dus

The walk back from the community garden felt long, but slipping under the heavy building door brought a sudden, quiet stillness. My heavy black hands pressed against the cool hallway parquet. By the shoe rack sat a pair of grey wool slippers. I paused, tilting my head at the soft, felted weave. Stepping deliberately forward, I braced my palms against a stray wooden shoehorn lying on the mat. With a steady push, I rolled it until its curved metal handle wedged securely between the slippers, propping one open like an inviting little cave. It feels good to be inside again.