He first noticed the key on a Tuesday.
Brass, warm to the touch, as if it had been held a moment before.
Its tag was a scrap of card, curling at the edges, with “No. 3” written in smudged ink.
He set it in the ceramic dish by the door — the one that used to hold both their keys.
By evening, it was gone.
When he went to bed, it was on the pillow beside him.
He dreamt of a narrow street and a green door.
Faded paint, brass plate: 3.
A faint smell of cedar, sharp and dry, like the inside of an old drawer.
He put the key in the lock.
The tumblers shifted with a soft, deliberate click.
A shadow moved behind the glass.
The next morning, he kept glancing toward the dish.
The key lay there, still.
That night, he dreamt again.
Days passed.
Once, leaving for work, he paused with his own front door ajar, hand resting on the frame.
For a second, the keyhole seemed… older. Darker. He touched the metal and pulled his hand back.
In the dream, he stood again at the green door.
The cedar scent met him sooner this time, as if it had been waiting.
He turned the key.
The door opened inward.
It began to feel like an arrangement.
He went to bed earlier.
Stopped leaving the TV on for company.
Some nights he crossed the threshold.
Some nights he only stood just inside, listening.
Once, he thought he heard a radio in another room, low and blurred by walls.
One night, the key wasn’t in the dish.
Or on the pillow.
Or anywhere.
He checked again at dawn.
Empty dish. Cool ceramic.
Weeks have passed.
A faint oval of clean wood still marks where the dish sat; a line of dust where the edge had been.
Now and then, he catches himself slipping a hand into his coat pocket, fingertips brushing air.
Once, in a station concourse, he turned his head sharply —
the scent of cedar,
a glimpse of green —
but there was no one there.
His hand hovered over the spot where it had been, as if the warmth might still be there.
Cool wood met his fingers, smooth under a faint line of dust.
The dish lay empty.