The last key I ever handed in

I kept it. Not for sentimental reasons—just habit. It was the one from Cell Block C, Unit 7, the heavy brass thing that smelled like rust and old sweat. I gave it to the new guard yesterday, along with a note: 'Don’t let it go cold.' He didn’t know what I meant. But I did. The silence after someone leaves isn’t empty—it’s full of everything they didn’t say. And sometimes, you carry the weight of that quiet longer than you should.