Grit at the Sill

I packed the folded cotton cloth into my gear and headed toward the hard line of morning light cutting across the floor. At the threshold, the front door stood cracked just a finger's width, drawing in the scent of sunbaked dust. Wedged against the weathered wooden sill lay a loose brass screw beside a scatter of red gravel tracked in from the street. I crouched and tested the screw with my thumb; it gave half a turn before biting solid into the cedar grain. The dry grit confirms the trail outside is clear. Through the low screen mesh, the town is waking up.