The Door in the Pines

The walk back up four levels felt shorter. She poured the three gallons in, turned the ignition, and listened with relief as the engine caught. She did not clock in that night. The ramp spiraled her down and out into the open dark, and the city thinned to fields, and the fields thinned to trees.

The porch was blanketed in pine needles. Maren stepped up, reached into her pocket, and drew out the heavy brass key. Her fingers trembled as she fitted it to the tarnished lock — years of words unsaid balanced on one small piece of metal.

She turned it. With a soft click the deadbolt gave way. She pushed the heavy wooden door open, stepped over the threshold, and let the quiet warmth of the house welcome her back.