And then, almost like clockwork, she would begin to cry. Not loudly. Not in a way that demanded attention. Just quietly. Tears that slid down without interruption, as if they had been waiting all night for permission.

All day, the key nagged her. At work, at lunch, even on the ride home. Its ridges felt strangely familiar. That night, she pulled out an old wooden jewelry box she hadn’t touched in a decade—the one her mother had given her at sixteen, the year everything fell apart.