I'm at the front desk, 2 AM, and I find your old keys in my coat pocket.
Three keys on a plain silver ring. They don't open anything in this state capital.
It's my first payday at this new job. I have the check folded inside the map you gave me — the one with the route to you highlighted.
I called your number just to hear your voicemail. 'I still have your keys,' I say into the silence.
They're warm from my pocket. I imagine them opening your door one more time.
But they won't. That apartment is gone. You're gone. This is just metal.
I don't end the message. I just hold the phone to my chest and listen to the empty line.