"They didn’t save me. Not in the way that word is usually meant. But they gave me back the morning. A reason to pull the blinds. To let the light in."

A bouquet split in half. A bee whispers at the edge of goodbye. Petals fall into dinner, and still, she leaves gently, like something wild remembering how to bloom.

I’ve never quite understood keys. Or how something so small can decide if you’re allowed back in. In "Keys", part of the "Things I Don’t Understand" series, I try to unlock a door. The door has thoughts. The key has memory. And apparently, I have something to answer for.

I don’t reach for the past, but it finds me. Like an unsent note in a jacket pocket, still folded. Still warm.

She turned back for me. Helped me carry what I couldn’t. A quiet kindness, in the chaos, that I’ll never forget.

A quiet ritual. Some winter ducks. I didn’t mean to get emotionally attached. But I did. And then they were gone.