THEY WERE ALREADY THERE

CHAPTER 2: THE ORDER OF THINGS (CONTINUED)

The pulse beneath my palm did not stop.

I stood at the window, my hand resting on the book, and counted. One beat. Two. Three. Slow. Regular. Not my heartbeat. Something else. Something beneath the cover, between the pages, deep in the binding.

I pulled my hand away. The pulse stopped. I placed it back. The pulse returned.

The book was not empty. It was speaking. I simply did not understand the language.

I left the book on the table and went to the cellar. The door was still open. The light was still on. The room was empty except for the wooden table. But the table was no longer empty.

A single object lay on it. A key.

Not the key from the display cabinet. This one was older, darker, the metal corroded. I picked it up. It was cold and rough. No label. No note. Only the key.

I turned it over. On the back, scratched into the metal, a single letter: K.

Keller? Küche? Kiste? I did not know.

I took the key upstairs and placed it on the kitchen table, next to the wooden figure. Then I opened the logbook and wrote:

26.03.2024 – 21:10 – Neuer Schlüssel im Keller auf Tisch gefunden. Alt, korrodiert. Buchstabe "K" eingraviert. Keine Erklärung.

I closed the book. The key lay beside the wooden figure. The wooden figure stared at the key. The book pulsed beneath my palm.

I had three objects now that spoke of absence: the book that said nothing, the key that opened nothing, the photograph that showed two children in front of a house I did not know.

No. The photograph had not appeared. Not yet. That was a different page, a different moment. I was getting ahead of myself.

I shook my head and focused on what was in front of me. The book. The key. The wooden figure. The music box. The shoe. The pen.

Six objects. Six questions.

I sat down and placed my hand on the book again. The pulse was weaker now, but still there. I closed my eyes and listened.

Not with my ears. With something else. Something the house had taught me.

And then, very faintly, I heard it. Not a sound. A word. A single word, formed not by a voice but by the pressure beneath my hand.

Finden.

Find.

I opened my eyes. The book was blank. The pulse was gone. My hand was cold.

I looked at the key. The letter K. Finden. Find what? The key? The house? The forest?

I stood up and walked to the display cabinet. The figurines were still. The key on the eighth pedestal was still. I opened the glass door and took out the key. I held it next to the one from the cellar.

Different sizes. Different metals. Different ages.

I placed both keys on the table. Then I opened the logbook and added a line to my last entry:

Die Schlüssel sind nicht identisch. Einer gehört nicht hierher. Vielleicht alle nicht.

I closed the book. The keys lay side by side. The book pulsed once, weakly, then fell silent.

I waited. The house waited. The forest waited.

Something was ending. Something was beginning.

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