A Match for the Key

The brass key had grown warm in my pocket, but my mind stayed cold with curiosity. I carried my lantern low along the rusted iron fence until the bars gave way to a rotting wooden trellis. Tucked behind thick ivy, I spotted an old tool locker, swollen shut by years of rain. I brushed aside dry spiderwebs with the edge of my spade. The keyhole was crusty with verdigris, but when I guided the old brass key inward, it slid in with a stiff, satisfying click. It did not turn easily—I had to twist with both claws—but the iron latch groaned open. Inside rested a small glass jar filled with rusted metal gears, entirely undisturbed.