We walked up to the front door. The porch light was on—bright, harsh, unblinking.
I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again, harder.
Still nothing.
I tried the doorknob. Locked.
Then I remembered—because of course I remembered—Mom used to hide a key under the ceramic birdbath shaped like a seashell. She’d always said it was “for emergencies.”
I lifted it.
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