Imagine that key had a passport stamped in a language nobody reads, a map tucked inside the metal that leads to a forgotten corner of a city where the streetlights still hum old lullabies. If we let it stay in the drawer a bit longer, it might whisper the tale of the night it slipped from a hurried hand, the smell of rain on cobblestones, and the quiet laughter of a couple who promised to meet there every year. The key would still be a quiet traveler, keeping secrets like a secret garden door, waiting for the right moment to open up a story that no one thinks will ever be told.