He placed the old brass key beside me.
“What does it actually open?” I asked.
“The employee break room at our first factory.”
“That’s all?”
“It was the first key my grandfather trusted me with. I cleaned that room every Saturday for a year before he allowed me to manage anything.”
I turned the scratched key over in my hand.
“Why did you give it to me?”
“Because you stopped asking what everything was worth.”
Years later, Walter passed away peacefully in his sleep.
At his funeral, investors filled only two rows.
The rest of the church was crowded with mechanics, janitors, secretaries, retired bakers, apprentices, scholarship students, and families whose names I knew.
Afterward, a glamorous young woman approached me and glanced toward the company vehicles.
“What is it really like marrying into all this money?” she asked.
I laughed and led her into Walter’s office.
Then I handed her the leather portfolio.
Her smile widened when she opened it.
A few seconds later, it slowly disappeared.
That evening, I visited the company’s oldest factory.
Through a distant window, I could see the mansion glowing on the hill.
I barely noticed it.
After the final employees collected their coats, I turned off the break-room lights and closed the door.
The small brass key turned smoothly in the lock.
Years earlier, I had dreamed of owning the mansion.
Walter left me something far more valuable.
He gave me a reason to open doors for other people.
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