The Mystery Key

Mystery Key

by: Aleta Grimball O'Brien

The morning news warned that a cold front had moved in after last night’s storm. Her fingers pushed through the hangers in the closet until she found the dark green coat with the fur-lined hood.

She was already ten minutes late. Cool mornings made it difficult to get out of bed. She quickly put on the coat, grabbed her purse, and hurried outside. Her hands found the coat pockets as she walked toward the car.

That was when she felt something. She stopped. If her neighbors were watching, they might have thought she had become a frozen sculpture.

She pulled out the object and examined it in the palm of her hand. It was a small silver key, about half the length of her index finger. It looked like an antique.

Between the cold and the knowledge that she was late, she shoved the key back into her pocket. While maneuvering through the morning traffic, however, her thoughts returned to it.

Her mind raced through a list of possibilities. What did she need a key for? Not the car—it used a fob. Not the house—it was touch activated. Not the gym locker—it had a combination lock. Yes, she owned keys, two in fact, for work. But those were standard size and remained attached to her purse at all times.

“When was the last time I wore this coat?” she asked herself.

She played a game of elimination and memory recall. It had been last winter, when she was in Ireland. Her face softened with the warmth of fond memories.

Sadly, she couldn’t linger over them for long. She was already pulling into the building’s parking lot. When she saw a coworker walking out just as she entered, she stopped and asked why people were leaving.

“The heater is broken. The repairman won’t be here until tomorrow.”

As tempting as it was to follow everyone else, she went to her desk and kept her coat on. She had deadlines to meet—and a tiny space heater beneath her desk.

Throughout the day, she found herself either tucking her hands beneath her legs for warmth or slipping them into her coat pockets. Each time, her fingers discovered the little key. She began rubbing it between them, and it became a kind of soothing stone whenever the work felt overwhelming.

Eventually, even the space heater wasn’t enough. When her nose began to feel like an icicle, she decided to call it a day. She had made considerable progress on her work. She turned off the space heater and the lights, then left the cold office behind.

During the drive home, she ordered Chinese food for supper and took another walk down memory lane.

Once home, she unpacked the food and searched for photographs from her vacation. She tucked herself into the sofa and began flipping through the pictures on her laptop.

She remembered the Cliffs of Moher and the woman who sang there, adding to the magic of the moment. Her memories wandered to the stone circle and the incredible sunset, then to the limestone path she had followed on another day and the ancient ruins she had explored. For the duration of the trip, she had stayed on a working farm. She had been given a tour and introduced to calves born only the night before her arrival.

But she found nothing that explained the key.

It followed her through her thoughts as she completed her nightly routine and settled beneath a blanket on the sofa. Her eyes grew heavy, and she began to dream.

She dreamed of the little girl in Ireland.

Had she been a fairy?

How silly. Fairies weren’t real.

But the horizon glimmered as though magic were just within her reach. The tiny girl laughed and placed the silver key in her hand.

“Find me when your soul needs nourishing.”