No one asked for the key anymore.
It sat at the back of the drawer, heavier than the others, its teeth worn smooth by use that had ended long before the reason for it had been forgotten. Every so often, when the drawer was opened too quickly, it chimed softly against its neighbours, a sound that suggested usefulness, or at least the memory of it.
The shop had belonged to her uncle. He had been a man who kept things long past their relevance: receipts tied with string, screws in mismatched tins, keys whose doors had been boarded up or bricked over or simply walked away from. When the shop became hers, she cleared most of it out. She learned which keys sold, which needed cutting, which were kept only because someone, somewhere, might come back.
This one, though, never moved.
She considered throwing it away more than once. It had no label. No twin. No story anyone could remember. Each time she lifted it, she weighed it in her palm, then set it back where it was, telling herself she would decide later.
Later, as it turned out, was patient.
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