Door

There is a thin, hairline crack that runs vertically down the man’s front door.  The door is a rich, sanguineous red.  He doesn’t set an alarm at night but listens for the increasing hum—like a small bee’s nest—of cars along the main road.  The house is nestled into the bottom of a large hill sandwiched between the hillside and the street.  The wind funnels down the hillside and makes an abrupt adjacent turn down the main corridor.  The wind whips. If it hits the front of the house just right, the air will push through the front door crack and whistle like a kid pursing their lips against a blade of summer grass.