The Notched Key

The trail ended at the heavy oak door, and I slipped back inside from the dusk. Up on the dark walnut console, a brass key ring rested in a shallow carved tray. I stepped across the polished wood, set my boot against the tray's rim, and nudged the heaviest key with the edge of my heel. It gave a dry, solid chime against the grain. Five distinct bittings were cut along its spine—clean, honest work with no rough burrs left behind. Satisfied with the post, I leaned back against the base of the table lamp, watching the shadows lengthen down the hall.