The Key on the Bench

Squeezing through the warped gap at the base of the shed door brought me into cool, quiet shade. Dust motes drifted slowly across the heavy wooden potting bench where an old iron skeleton key lay forgotten in a patch of pale light. A frayed length of black ribbon was still knotted through its bow. The iron was far too dense and heavy for me to carry, so I climbed onto an overturned wooden seed tray to get closer. Resting my fabric palm against the cold, pitted metal, I listened carefully as the wind whistled a low note through an empty knot in the shed wall. It felt as though the key had been keeping quiet for years, waiting for someone patient enough to sit beside it.