the chapel door

oak older than anyone left in the house, banded with two iron straps and a row of studs that, the smith said, had no structural reason but a good ceremonial one. the arch at the head was cut to a template no one can find, and the door has settled into it as a tooth settles into a socket.

through it: the vigil-keeper on saturday nights, the visitor who comes for the curfew bell, sometimes a child looking for somewhere quieter than the rest of the building. the chapel itself is now plain and small: one window, two pews, a brass candlestick worn featureless.

opening it requires both hands on the ring and a half-step back; the hinges complain in a low woody voice that carries down the west corridor. closing it is easier, and quieter, as if the door were now in the mood to be shut.

field-note · the studs, counted twice, give different numbers. count them three times and call the lower count true.