She keeps the doors unlocked.

Ada works as a baker. Her shop is on the corner, making the whole block smell good. The cozy booths and turquoise chairs give the shop a contemporary feel. Her croissants and eclairs are regarded as the best in the country. She lives above her bakery with a cat and a fish tank. She has no children of her own, so she often visits her sister’s house, as she has a husband and two sons, both in elementary school. Whenever she visits, she brings homemade treats for free, but when they visit her shop, she charges them extra.

At night, she closes the doors and curtains, but she keeps an ear out for anyone who knocks twice only. She opens the door and sells her monkey bread, which only a few people know about.

Her bakery has been closed for a while now. Closed, yet the doors remain open. She keeps the doors unlocked.

I know all this. I know about the monkey bread, the recipes for her croissants, the cat that I’ve only seen a couple times that I now take care of full time. Ada is gone. Her doors remain open now.

I knocked twice. I got no response. She wasn’t even at home. She was in a neighboring town, trying to jumpstart a friend’s car, when she got hit by a drunk driver. Even at the end, she was helping people.

I am her nephew. I walk past her shop every day. It has a For Sale sign in the window. It’s no longer the special shop in the neighborhood. It no longer holds my aunt, or her cat, or her croissants, or her kindness. It’s no longer the cozy bakery, where the owner is caring and welcoming and her door is always open. Although, her door _is_ always open now. I have the key now. It lies on my bedside table, where it will remain, as I do not want to touch it and think of her any more than I already do.

She keeps the doors unlocked.