Chapter 08 · 3 min 29 sec
The Door That Won't Lock
Recognition — looking back and seeing the love that was always present, just unnamed.
Lyrics· 233 words
[Verse 1] The lock's been broken since February I keep meaning to call someone, I never do It's the back room, nobody comes back here That's what I tell myself at closing time But I still check it twice before I leave I still put a chair against the handle A broken lock isn't the same as a closed door No matter how I dress it up
[Verse 2] What's back there isn't dangerous It's just unfinished, just unlabeled Things I haven't decided how to frame yet Things that don't have a placard or a price If someone wandered in without me knowing They'd see it before I chose how to show it That's the part that keeps me up past midnight Not the door, the lack of choosing
[Bridge — spoken] I called the locksmith twice. Both times I let it ring out. I think some part of me likes that anyone could walk in. I think some part of me is waiting for someone who would.
[Verse 3] The chair against the handle isn't much A strong wind could probably move it But it's mine, I chose to put it there That's different than a working lock Maybe that's the whole museum, if I'm honest A house of doors I chose not to fix Not because I want them broken forever But because I haven't found who gets the key yet
Short Story
*A story for curious minds*
There was a baker named Tevin whose shop had a back gate with a latch that had been loose for almost a year. He told customers, when they asked, that he simply hadn't gotten around to fixing it — there was always bread to proof, always an oven to watch, always something more urgent than a gate that mostly stayed shut on its own anyway.
But Tevin checked that gate every single night before he locked up the front. Sometimes twice. He'd lean his weight against it, feel it give a little, and then go home anyway, carrying the small worry with him like a stone in his coat pocket.
Behind the gate was nothing dramatic — just the part of the yard where he kept things he hadn't decided what to do with yet. An old bread oven, cracked beyond use, that he couldn't bring himself to scrap. Bins of recipes he'd never published. A chair with a broken leg he'd been meaning to mend for so long that meaning to had become its own kind of permanent arrangement.
His apprentice, a sharp-eyed girl named Coraline, offered more than once to fix the latch herself — she was handy, it would take twenty minutes. Tevin always found a reason to put it off. "Next week," he'd say, and mean it, and not do it.
One night, after closing, Coraline asked him plainly why he hadn't just let her fix it months ago.
Tevin considered lying. He'd gotten good at that, the way people get good at anything they practice nightly. Instead he said, "I think some part of me likes that anyone could walk back there if they really wanted to. I think I'm waiting to see who'd bother."
Coraline didn't say anything clever back. She just nodded, like she'd suspected as much, and didn't offer to fix the latch again.
It was another two months before anyone did walk through — not an intruder, just Coraline herself, one evening, carrying a tray of cooling bread that needed somewhere out of the heat. She found the broken oven, the unpublished recipes, the three-legged chair, and instead of asking Tevin to explain any of it, she simply set the tray down in the empty space beside the oven and said, "There's room here for more than I thought."
Tevin fixed the latch himself the following week. Not because the yard had stopped being private, but because he'd finally figured out, watching Coraline set down that tray without flinching, exactly who he might someday be willing to hand the key to.
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