The KeyIt was worn, battered, and discolored, but its shape was uniquely perfect. Despite the scratches across its once glimmering surface, I could still read the inscription, an inscription so simple and yet sent tingles down my spine: 131. I picked the key out of the dirt, brushed off the remaining flecks of wood and stone, and admired it. I then turned my curiosity to the hole it left near the roots of an old rose bush. How long had it been buried? Frowning, I turned to gaze up at the sleek, white walls of the Millview Hotel. I tried to recall any conversations I might have heard about a missing key, but had no luck. It was almost as if the key dThe Key
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*** nature is everything ***
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