There was nothing here. Only the key. And that was barely anything at all. What was a key, after all, without a lock? Just a sad, little ornament people claim inspires hope. But it wasn't alone anymore. I clasped the key. I held it close to my chest but knew that was not where it belonged. I lifted it to my forehead and pressed it into the keyhole. It disappeared and brought forth a steady stream of warm liquid. I did not scream, I did not speak. After all, I was just a sad, little ornament with too much hope.
YOU ARE READING
Unspoken: The Anthology
General FictionFor all the stories that would otherwise go unheard, unsung, unspoken.
