Chapter 69: Key
Chapter 69: Key
When Amy pushed open the door, her backpack strap was sliding off her shoulder. She didn't bother fixing it, just let it hang in the crook of her arm, her gaze already fixed on the new textbook sitting on the table.
The book was brand new, its cover giving off a faint smell of fresh ink—nothing like the worn, hand-me-down items that filled this house. She walked over and flipped to the title page.
"Amy Harper."
Her name.
Below it was another line, written neatly, as if someone had taken their time: "Kyle." Next to it was a drawing of a golden key, taking up nearly half the page. The lines were smooth, drawn in one continuous stroke, with the tail curving slightly upward.
Amy stared at it for a moment. Said nothing. Closed the book.
She pulled out her old textbook from her backpack—the cover was frayed at the edges, all four corners curled up, and a torn page had been patched with yellowed tape. She set the old book and the new one side by side on the table. Old on the left, new on the right. The two books sat pressed together, worn and pristine, like two versions of the same thing.
Then she reached out and placed her hand on the old book's cover. Her fingers pressed down hard, smoothing out the curled corner. She held it there for a long moment before letting go. She looked at both books for three seconds, then turned and ran downstairs, her footsteps quick and urgent.
"Kyle. Where did the new textbook come from?"
She stood in front of him, face tilted up.
"Someone gave it to me."
"Who?"
"Don't know them."
She didn't respond right away, just looked at him. A few seconds later, she turned and ran back upstairs. Kyle followed.
Amy stood at the table, opening the old textbook to the torn page. The tear was jagged, leaving a serrated edge. She opened the new textbook to the same page.
That page was intact. On it was written "Amy Harper," "Kyle," and the drawing of the golden key.
She closed the new textbook and hugged it to her chest, both arms crossed protectively over it, like she was holding something she'd been waiting for forever. Then she ran downstairs and stopped in front of Kyle.
"Kyle. I'll use the new one."
"Okay."
---
"Kyle. Did that person send anything else?"
"Textbooks."
"Anything else?"
"No."
She nodded, jumped down from the chair, and ran upstairs. Kyle followed. By the time he reached the doorway, she was already standing at the table, the new textbook flipped open to the title page, staring at the line of text and the key.
Then she opened her pencil case and picked out a blue pen with faint teeth marks on the cap. She leaned over the table and started drawing next to the key. Her movements were slow—a few strokes, a pause, then more strokes.
When she finished, she stepped back.
On the page was a new figure. Short, holding a crayon, standing next to the golden key. No face.
She stared at it for a while, then closed the book and ran downstairs.
"Kyle. Tell him. I got it."
"Okay."
She nodded, ran to the stairs, stopped, turned back and said, "I'm going upstairs to draw," then ran back up, her footsteps lighter than before.
Kyle picked up his phone and texted Seer.
"She got it. She drew a little person next to the key. Short, holding a crayon. No face."
A moment later, Seer replied, "He says—understood."
Kyle set down his phone. Irene came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and sat across from him at the table.
"Kyle. Does he know?"
"He knows."
She nodded. Said nothing more.
When dawn broke, Kyle stood up from his chair and walked to the window, lifting a corner of the curtain. The spot by the mailbox on the corner was empty. Sunlight had just begun to creep over the rooftops across the street, and the pavement still held the coolness of night. He let the curtain fall and went upstairs.
Amy was still asleep. She lay on her side, curled under the blanket, one hand extending from beneath the covers and resting on the pillow, fingers slightly curled. The new textbook sat on the table, the old one beside it, the crayon box on the mantel untouched. He stood in the doorway watching her for a moment, then gently pulled the door shut and went back downstairs.
Irene stood in the kitchen doorway holding a cup of coffee. She handed it to him.
"Kyle. Are you taking her today?"
"Yes."
He took the cup and drank. Footsteps sounded upstairs—not running, but quick walking. Amy came down, her hair already tied back with a blue ribbon, wearing that red sweater with the sleeves rolled up twice, revealing her thin wrists. When she saw Kyle, she didn't slow down.
"Kyle. Are we having bread today?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"Probably cereal."
Irene had already set a bowl of cereal on the table. Amy sat down, took a spoonful, and looked up at him.
"Kyle. Aren't you cold in short sleeves?"
"No, it's going to be hot today."
---
She nodded, scraped up the last bit of cereal from the bottom of the bowl, jumped down from the chair. "Let's go."
Kyle stood up. Irene watched them, saying nothing. He pushed open the door, and they walked out into the sunlight together. She walked fast, her steps small but frequent, not holding his hand. When they reached the school entrance, she stopped and turned around.
"Kyle. See you this afternoon."
"See you this afternoon."
---
After dropping Amy off at school, Kyle turned and headed back. When he reached the corner, he stopped.
On the ground was a white envelope. No postmark, perfectly clean, as if the wind had blown it from somewhere and it had landed right at his feet. He bent down, picked it up, and opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper with one line.
"The little person she drew—is that you?"
Kyle folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket, quickening his pace home. When he pushed open the door, Irene was standing by the window with the curtain pulled back a crack. Dorothy sat at the dining table knitting, the bamboo needles clicking softly together.
"Kyle. Did he send a letter?"
"Yes."
He pulled out the paper and set it on the table. Irene picked it up and looked at it for a few seconds.
---
"What will you say back?"
Kyle didn't answer. He went upstairs and into Amy's room, standing at the table. The new textbook lay open, the title page showing "Amy Harper," "Kyle," the key, and next to it the little person—short, holding a crayon, no face.
He reached out, his index finger touching the little person, and pressed down.
He held it there for a moment.
When he lifted his finger, there was a faint indentation in the paper. Not deep, but visible in the light, like the mark left by a fingernail lightly dragged across paper.
He went downstairs, picked up his phone, his finger hovering above the screen. He paused for a second, then typed.
"Yes."
Seer was silent for a moment. "He says—understood."
Kyle set down his phone. He sat in the chair by the door, looking outside. The door was open, the corner empty, sunlight already covering the pavement. Klaus had asked if the little person was him. He'd said yes. Klaus understood.
---
The little person Amy drew had no face. But she'd drawn him. Standing next to the key, short, holding a crayon. She hadn't drawn a face, but he knew it was him. Klaus knew it was him too.
She'd drawn him.
He'd just pressed an indentation into that little person. When she got home from school, she'd flip open the textbook, see what he'd written back, feel that indentation. She wouldn't ask. She'd just open it, run her fingers over that slight depression, then close it again.
The same as the word he'd written. The same as the little person next to the key.
All of it kept.
He sat there. The door open. The corner empty.
The textbook lay on the table, waiting for her to come home from school and flip it open with her fingers, waiting for her to feel that faint mark on the paper.