The quiet after the last lock

It’s past one, and the city’s breathing slower. I just finished a job where the owner didn’t even thank me—just handed over a key like it was a receipt. The dog outside the door whined once, then sat. I think he knew I wasn’t leaving because of the lock, but because I’d stopped needing to prove anything. Old shoes creak louder than new ones, but they remember the weight. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what people really want: not the key, but someone who understands the silence between the turn and the door opening.