the attic door

set into the angle of the roof, so low the lintel cuffs the head of anyone over five-foot-six. the door is shorter than tall, broader than narrow, and at present locked. there is no spare; the key was lost in a coat that was given away, or so the housekeeper believes.

nobody passes through. the things on the other side — the trunk, the phonograph, the mannequin, the kite — go on being themselves, lengthened by the silence. in mid-summer the door is warm to the palm, as if the room behind were breathing low and slow.

it sounds, at long intervals, like nothing at all. and sometimes like one slow tap, from inside, that the household has agreed not to discuss. the keyhole is choked with dust; a piece of paper slid under the door comes back blank.

field-note · place an ear to the panel at four in the morning. you will hear the house thinking.