The Key's Scrape

Dust, like flour, on my fingers.

This brass weight,

cold, familiar shape,

from my father's shoe box. 'Misc.'

I took it to the diary,

locked for years, a small, dark thing

on the shelf. Not yours. Mine.

The ward didn't catch.

Just a dry, grating sound,

metal on metal,

a thin scratch now,

a pale mark

on the dark plate.

A small betrayal

of what it once

held open.

Nothing.