Inside, I found a small, tarnished key. My mind raced, trying to comprehend its significance. Why would he hide a key in the flowerpot? What door—or perhaps what part of his life—did it unlock? This discovery, both mundane and mysterious, sent a cascade of questions crashing through my mind, each more urgent than the last.
I sat there on the floor, surrounded by shards of pottery and spilled soil, feeling the weight of the unknown pressing down on me. The apartment suddenly felt claustrophobic, every shadow hiding secrets I had never considered. I knew I needed help, so I called the police. My voice was steady when I explained the situation—more steady than I felt inside.
The officers arrived promptly. They were kind but efficient, their presence both reassuring and disquieting. They examined the key carefully, taking photographs and documenting the scene. I watched as they worked, my heart pounding loudly in the silence.
