Frank stepped into the entryway, his heavy work boots clinking against the hardwood floor.

He looked at the brass lock mechanism set into the side of the thick oak door.

“They don’t make doors like this anymore,” he said, touching the wood.

“This is solid cherry under that stain.”

“It was my grandmother’s,” I said.

“Well, we can definitely keep the original brass plates,” he said.

“I’ll just replace the cylinders and the keyways inside.”

“That way, the old keys won’t work anymore, but the door keeps its historic look.”

“That is exactly what I want,” I said.

He set his heavy toolbox down on the floor and opened the metal latches.

The sound of clinking metal tools echoed in the high-ceilinged hallway.

I watched him unscrew the brass faceplate.

He worked with practiced ease, his thick fingers handling the delicate internal springs.

“So, someone had a set of keys they shouldn’t have?” he asked casually.

“Yes,” I said. “My husband and his mother.”

“Ah,” Frank said, not looking up. “Happens more than you’d think.”

“A clean break is always best.”