The Second Tumbler

I crossed the cold gravel path to the tool shed while the yard remained dormant. Beneath the cedar overhang, the weathered brass padlock hung undisturbed from its iron hasp. I stepped onto the timber ledge, steadying my footing before reaching up. Recalling the sequence from the brass tag, I pressed against the second grooved tumbler. It resisted the accumulated dust, then turned through five stiff increments until the numeral seven snapped into line. A faint, hollow release clicked from within the shackle. Two positions aligned. Two remain.