She never expected to see it again.

  Yet there it was, nestled beneath a tangle of old trinkets and forgotten hairpins in the back of her jewelry box—the key. The same key her great-grandmother had pressed into her palm with trembling fingers, eyes full of something unspoken. She hadn’t said where it came from or what it unlocked. She simply handed it to her; and within a week, she was gone.

  She had searched everywhere when it went missing months ago. Torn through drawers. Upended boxes. Cried, once or twice.

  And now, as if summoned, it had returned.

  What are you hiding? she thought, lifting it into the light.

  Time had not been kind to the key. Its gold finish was dulled with rust, but the handle remained exquisitely carved—tiny fairies frozen mid-flight, silver and copper flowers blooming along the ridged grip. A delicate trail of inlaid gemstones curled down the shaft like a vine, ending in a pattern she’d never noticed before.

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  A small design, no bigger than an apple seed, gleamed faintly. She leaned closer.

  There, etched so finely she almost missed it, were the words:

  Touch not the vine, roundabout we go,

  Til one and one, the sheltered bird of snow.

  She read it aloud, the syllables strange and heavy on her tongue.

  "Why does that sound like a riddle?" she murmured.

  Her fingers closed around the key. This time, she tucked it deep into her dress pocket, as if the fabric itself might guard it from vanishing again.

  "Not losing you twice," she said, half to herself.

  As she headed downstairs, a flicker of memory stopped her mid-step: the poison ivy that had always grown wild along the back fence of her grandmother’s house. Thick and twisting, like it was trying to keep something in—or out.

  What other vine would I not touch?

  It was all too strange.

  Days passed. School devoured her hours—lectures, tutoring, clubs, an endless churn of assignments. The mystery of the key faded behind algebra equations and essays on wars she didn’t care about. But it never left her completely.

  By the time Friday arrived, she was already planning her escape.

  “At last,” she whispered, patting her pocket to feel the key’s cool weight. “The weekend.”

  She didn’t tell anyone where she was going.

  Her grandmother’s house had stood empty since the funeral, shutters drawn, garden wild. No one visited. No one cared.

  Which made it perfect.