She sat and kept staring into my eyes.
While leaving, she slipped something heavy into my pocket. I took it out and froze.
This woman had the audacity to slip me a set of house keys—attached to a small, worn-out keychain shaped like a sunflower.
At first, I thought it was some sort of mistake. Maybe she meant to give them to someone else? I turned to call after her, but she was already off the bus and halfway across the street, moving surprisingly fast for her age.
“Ma’am! Ma’am!” I called out through the bus window, but she didn’t even glance back.
The driver pulled away before I could make any move. I sat back down, stunned.
A stranger had just… handed me keys.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept looking at the keychain. It had a name lightly scratched on the back—“Luci”—and a barely legible address on a faded label: 9 Mercer Lane.
I told my boyfriend, Dorian. He just laughed. “People leave flyers on cars and random junk in your bag all the time. Don’t think too much about it.”
But I couldn’t help it. Something about that woman’s eyes had stuck with me. They weren’t kind, exactly—but they were intentional. Like she meant to give me something. Like she saw something in me.
So two days later, I went. Just to look.
9 Mercer Lane was a small, run-down cottage on the edge of a quiet neighborhood—one of those places where you’re not sure if anyone lives there or not. But the mailbox had the name L. Wynn on it. Same as on the keychain.
I stood at the gate for a solid five minutes. My belly was aching a little. I debated turning around. But then I remembered that stare. That strange silence between us.
I took out the keys. They fit.
Inside, it was dusty but not abandoned. A small sofa. Faded curtains. A ticking clock that still worked. The place was old, but it felt lived-in. Not like a trap, not haunted. Just… left behind.
On the kitchen table sat a sealed envelope with my name on it. My full name.
