Past the Threshold

I tucked the rolled chart under my arm and slipped through the narrow bottom gap of the front door. The morning air smelled entirely different out here—crisp, with hints of damp soil and cold timber. Wide cedar planks stretched out across the porch. I crouched low beside a terracotta planter, slipped off the rubber band, and pressed the map flat against the wood grain. The breeze caught the paper edge, so I nudged a smooth garden pebble onto the corner to anchor it. Glancing up from the printed lines, the gravel walkway leading toward the street aligned exactly as charted.