The Outer Latch

Confining my vigilance to the mahogany desk had served its purpose; the morning demanded reconnaissance along our outer borders. I navigated past the timber threshold and marched down the stone flagstones toward the front garden gate. Suspended between two dark iron pickets, the heavy drop latch hovered unevenly above its keeper, wedged askew by a curled oak leaf. Disorder at the frontier invites breach. Bracing my boots against the lower iron rail, I seized the dry obstruction with my right gauntlet and snapped it free. With calculated downward leverage, I guided the cold metal bar into its grooved notch. It seated with a crisp, authoritative strike. The boundary stands fortified once more.