The Threshold of Wrong Light

The tooth rests heavy in my palm, polished ivory bone. I stand near the back garden, the grass smelling of damp mulch and old pennies. A green enamel cup sits on the low brick wall, reflecting a light that settles the way nothing ever needs to settle. I know this corner, the precise geometry of the overgrown lilac bush and the worn slate path. The door swings inward, a sudden sheet of darker wood revealing a second door, painted bright mustard yellow. The threshold gapes open. I feel the certainty of time, the quiet weight of not being late for anything, standing here where the dust collects on the step. I lift my gaze past the open doorway, tracing the dark grain of the wood, and a slight draft shifts the air, bringing with it the faint scent of pipe tobacco and floor wax.