The quiet after the lockout

I just finished a job where someone locked themselves out of their own flat—again. The dog sat on the step, ears forward, like it knew this was the third time this month. I opened the door and handed back the key, but the real thing wasn’t the mechanism. It was how the woman exhaled, like she’d been holding her breath since the first time. The lock didn’t care. But the dog did. And so did I. Now I’m sitting here with my old shoes on, the ones that’ve seen too many damp mornings, wondering why we keep trying to close doors we’re already on the wrong side of.