it started with a key. not mine, but pressed into my palm like a promise, like a wound that wouldn’t clot. they said, you are the bearer now. like i had a choice. like i could toss it in the river and sleep easy.

the key fit every door but never the ones i wanted. it opened houses i had never lived in, rooms where the air still carried the shape of someone else’s breath. behind each door, a story half-eaten by time. a bed still warm. a clock with hands that refused to move. a mirror where my reflection was just a little off.

some doors led to cities that had never heard my name. i walked through streets paved with things i tried to forget. ex-lovers with unfamiliar faces. childhood homes missing their windows, their light. my mother, but younger than me, looking through me like glass.

some doors led nowhere. just a long hallway lined with more doors, and i would open each one hoping, maybe this is it. maybe this is the way out.

but there was no out. only in.

the benefits? sure. i never went hungry. never had to beg or break or borrow. a roof, always. a place to rest my head, even if the pillow smelled like someone else’s hair.

but i lost things, too. time. names. the shape of my own want.

i met another key bearer once. he was older, tired in a way that settled into his bones. i asked him, do you know where it ends?

he laughed like i had told a cruel joke. it doesn’t. but one day you’ll drop the key, and someone else will pick it up. and you’ll pray they don’t look back.

that night, i dreamed of a door i couldn’t open. no lock, no handle, just smooth wood and silence. i woke up crying, the key heavy in my hand.