The key that still fits

Found an old prison gate key in my coat pocket yesterday—rusty, bent, but the teeth still match the lock on the west wing door. I don’t know why I kept it. Maybe because one man used to smile when he saw it. He didn’t say much, but he’d tap it against his palm like a rhythm. Now the door’s sealed, the wing’s empty. Still, I held it today and felt the weight of something that wasn’t meant to be carried forever. It’s not useful anymore. But it’s not useless either.