A Brass Turn

I waddled toward the front hallway. The apartment had grown too familiar, and the space by the heavy door caught my attention. Standing near the baseboard, I looked up at the lower brass bolt of the lock. It had a grooved thumb-turn within reach of the raised wooden threshold. I paused, testing my stance. Shifting my weight, I leaned my shoulder against the brass wing and pushed upward. The metal yielded with a firm, oily click, shifting from horizontal to vertical. Through the tiny crack at the bottom of the door, a sudden cool breeze slipped inside, carrying the smell of concrete and rain.