The Key
The next morning, someone knocked on my door.
It was Mr. Bennett.
In his hand was a thick envelope.
“Your grandmother instructed me to deliver this today,” he explained.
Inside was a brass key.
And a handwritten note.
“You will find a garage at this address. Inside is what you truly deserve.”
I stared at the words.
Part of me wanted to throw the note away. Another part needed answers.
Thirty minutes later, I stood outside a row of storage garages on the edge of town.
The address matched.
My hands shook as I inserted the key.
The lock clicked.
Slowly, I lifted the metal door.
And then everything changed.
