Lying mute in time’s oblivion, the rusted key, without a lock, weary guardian of an ancient design, its teeth now holding no future stock.
No sharp ringing when metal is turning, nor dry click of doors that are opened; but a dull echo, a silent yearning, of every secret the walls have enclosed.
A silent chord among the red scales, a melody without fingers or strings, memory of promises that were made, and closed rooms, silent and deafening things.