The next morning arrived with an overcast sky, casting a dull light across the apartment.
My father was already awake, shuffling around the kitchen, a familiar routine that provided comfort.
He didn’t know about the key, and I intended to keep it that way.
Today, I had to face the building manager.
Would he arrive on time, or would this be another delay?
As the minutes passed, I found myself glancing at the door, the key still hanging there.
Each look was a reminder of the choice I made, one that felt more significant with each passing moment.
The maintenance notice had promised improvements, yet nothing had changed.
The building remained as it had always been, a place of broken promises.
My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, sharp and unexpected.
It was him, the building manager, finally here to inspect.
My heart pounded as I approached the door, unsure of how this encounter would unfold.
Would he notice the key?
Would he care?
The door opened to reveal his familiar, disinterested expression.
“Morning,” he said, barely meeting my eyes.
I stepped aside, allowing him to enter, the key still in the lock, a silent testament to my resolve.
His inspection was brief, cursory, as if he had somewhere more important to be.
“Any issues?” he asked, his tone flat.
I hesitated, the words forming in my mind, unsure if they would make any difference.
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