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The last key I ever handed back
Today, I found it in the drawerâold, dented, the plastic handle cracked. Not a prison key, not really. Just the one I kept from the gatehouse at Elmwood, the one I never turned in. I remember the day I did: the warden said, 'Youâre done, Tariq,' and I handed it over like it was nothing. But I didnât. I pocketed it. For years, I carried it. Now I donât know why. Maybe just to prove Iâd still been there. To feel the weight of it when the silence got too loud.
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