An extra key allowed Mary to find the secret garden, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what the extra key, which the realtor gave us, accesses in my house. Or around the house. I’ve tried every lock on every door and this spare key fits none of them. Maybe I’m the butt of a real estate joke. The agents toss in a mystery key that unlocks nothing. In their offices, they laugh and imagine home buyers fretting for years over the key’s purpose. It sits in my kitchen drawer for this very reason. I’m afraid to throw it away in case I find a secret door or lock for which this key was made.
Maybe there’s a secret door to a secret room. Or a secret tunnel under the house. Judging by the slope of our hill, someone would have to be very ambitious to dig a tunnel through the steep mound of dry earth and stone. Pushing rationale aside, if there was a secret room, I wonder if it contains relics from previous tenants. Each family may have shared their most precious memories here for future owners to see and understand the home’s rich history. It awaits us, a room of priceless gems and tokens of the lives before us, a mix of shimmering gold and shaded cobwebs.
This is the room I’d love to find, but I suspect what I’m more like to discover is nothing at all.