“Let me help you with the handles,” Sophie said.

We pushed down together until the old iron gave way with a sharp crack.

The broken lock fell into the wet leaves by the threshold.

I took Daniel’s old brass key out of my coat pocket and slid it into the original lock cylinder above the brass handle.

The tumbler inside turned without catching.

The heavy cedar door swung open, letting in the clean morning air and the smell of wet oak and pine boards.

Inside, cobwebs stretched across the high rafters like thin white lace.