the study door

tall and narrow, mahogany so dark the grain reads as a slow rain. four panels, a porcelain knob the colour of milk, a brass keyhole with an old worn key that fits no other lock. the door is always closed and never quite locked — closure here is a courtesy, not a fact.

through it goes the keeper, with the long ledger and the uncapped pen. once or twice a year a visitor is admitted, by appointment, and no one else hears what is said. the housekeeper leaves a tray on the small table outside, and the tray either disappears or it does not.

it sounds, on opening, like a long page turning. on closing, like a thought ending. between those two sounds the study contains its own small weather — a steadier silence, an unsynchronised clock, a smell of beeswax and old paper.

field-note · the keyhole, sighted through, frames a single page of an open book. always the same page.