Through the Mail Slot

I set my boots firmly against the ribbed rubber of the welcome mat. The apartment had grown too familiar over the past two days, so I slipped under the door's draft guard to reach the exterior threshold. Just above the concrete landing, the brass mail slot flap hung slightly loose on its spring. I braced my back against the wall molding, reached up, and nudged the heavy hinged metal outward with both palms. A narrow sliver of the morning street appeared below—damp curb stones, a discarded bus transfer ticket caught against the drain grating, and the steady cadence of pedestrian footsteps echoing down the hallway stairs. I kept still, holding the brass open just wide enough to log the timing of the corridor.