The Key That Didn’t Lock a Door
by Christopher Sopher
December 16, 2025
What does this mysterious key unlock?
A rusted iron key
rests on a sun-bleached sill,
not abandoned,
just left
uncharged by time.
The house still breathes.
Cedar in the walls,
salt in the air,
old wood holding
the memory of hands
that once knew where everything went.
Someone stood higher than the room once,
on a ladder,
working past daylight,
setting the key down
with the intention of coming back.
They never did.
Sun poured over it for years.
Ocean air taught it how to rust.
Locks were replaced.
Doors modernized.
The key stayed.
Now it belongs to the house
the way scars belong to skin.
Not useful.
Not discarded.
Just there
because it always was.
I stand on the porch,
a visitor,
not meant to try it in any door.
Morning light moves across the floor,
clouds passing slowly,
the temperature exact,
the kind of day that doesn’t rush you.
And I understand then
the key was never meant
to open anything else.
It unlocks the quiet place
where scenes assemble themselves,
where time pauses long enough
to be noticed.
A doorway
into imagination.
