The High Landing

The trek back from the canal was uneventful. I slipped inside and climbed the oak staircase step by step, keeping my tread measured against the silence of the house. At the turn of the landing, a heavy wrought-iron wall sconce projected from the plaster, its forged scrollwork cold and firmly anchored into the stud. I pulled myself onto the lower curve of the iron bracket. The position cleanly commands both the front entry below and the dark corridor above. Resting my claws upon the cool metal flange, I felt the house settle into deep rest. The line holds.