I have a key which opens one door. Every member of my family received one when we came of age. Grandfather gave mine to me on my eleventh birthday, telling me to guard it with my life until I found the door it opened.

    The key looked drawn from a story, gold filigree inset with rubies of the clearest red. It never tarnished, never lost its shine—even when Ruffles ate it, and I waited hours for it to come back out. I spent nights staring into my reflection, distorted in the faces of the gems. Sometimes, my reflection stared back.

     Dreaming of what door my key would one day open filled me with wonder. Would it be a fancy door in some far off castle? Perhaps a secret door, or a dusty attic? Maybe the cargo door to the hold of a sunken pirate ship? My sister would laugh at my excitement, claiming she couldn’t care less where her key fit. But I couldn’t wait.

     I wish I had.

    Grandfather died the spring before I turned fifteen. The doctors say it was a freak heart attack, something no one could have predicted with his medical history. My parents cried. My sister broke down, refusing to leave her room for days after the funeral. Grandmother only nodded.

    “It was time.”

    She knew. She was the only one who seemed to understand. Except me. Because I was the only other person who knew what she did. I was with Grandfather when he died.

    He had taken me to the Museum of Art in downtown, to see the traveling Dali exhibit. We walked past walls of trees that formed faces and faces that formed trees. A painting that appeared to a woman gazing at a sunset, became a portrait of Abraham Lincoln when viewed from afar. And what appeared to be the wing of a fly on the Hallucinogenic Toreador, turned into a keyhole when approached.

    I rolled my eyes when Grandfather pulled his key from the chain he always wore beneath his shirt. After all, Dali might have painted on another dimension, but it was still a painting. I laughed up until the tip of the key touched the canvas—and slipped in.

    Grandfather had turned to me then, a wistful smile on his face. “My dear child, it is time. I will finally see all I have left to see.” Then he turned the key.

    Those were his last words. I will never know what was behind Grandfather’s door. All I know is when he saw it, he smiled. And then he died. His key dissolved, the door to never be opened again. The one who was meant to see it did, and it was the last sight he ever saw.

    Grandmother wasn’t surprised. She turned her key over in her hand, and whispered a prayer for her time to come soon so they could be together.

    I threw my key into the ocean the day after the funeral.

    Three years later, I found it in drawer while packing up for college. I left it home. Two years later, I pulled it from my backpack. I threw the whole backpack in the trash. One year later, it joined the key to my first car on its ring. I switched to keyless ignition.

    The gold key followed me my whole life, leading to this moment. Grandfather said to guard it with my life. But it’s the other way around. The key guards my life. I have spent the last decade making the most dangerous and reckless decisions possible, knowing I will die when I see whatever is behind my door. Not a moment before.

    The golden key sticks out from between two bricks in the wall of the orphanage where I work as a grief counselor. I don’t know what possessed me to try it, except the hole in the mortal had bothered me for months now. Now I know why.

    I don’t have to turn the key. No one will be there to counsel the kids through my loss. And I’m not yet ready to go.

    Still…

    The part of me who dreamed of knowing still wants to know. I couldn’t wait.

    I stare into my reflection in the polished rubies, and my reflection smiles.