Several months later, Fanny noticed the brass key still hanging from my keyring.
We were standing beside Theresa’s sunflowers, gathering seeds for the next spring.
“Why do you still carry it?” she asked.
I knelt and placed the key in her hand.
“This key doesn’t unlock a house anymore, sweetie.”
She ran her finger along its worn edge.
“Then what does it unlock?”
“The part of us that notices when someone is waiting.”
Fanny looked toward Walter’s porch.
Roger sat beside him, pretending not to know where Walter had hidden his reading glasses.
Olive poured tea while a fresh pie cooled on the railing.
Fanny gently closed my fingers around the key.
“When I’m bigger, can I be next?”
My eyes filled before I could answer.
“I was hoping you’d ask, sweetheart.”
Theresa taught me that loneliness never truly disappears.
It simply moves to another house.
It waits behind different windows.
And sometimes, all it takes to reach it is ten ordinary steps across a driveway.
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