In the iron-shuttered district of Deadbolt Row, where doors opened to more than just rooms, Harlan Keyes didn’t just cut keys—he forged consequences.
His workshop smelled of gunmetal and old sins, its walls hung with keys that shouldn’t exist:
Customers paid in secrets. A politician left his childhood nickname. A murderer surrendered the smell of his victim’s hair. Harlan would melt these down, casting them into keys that remembered their origins.
Then the locks started weeping.
Not metaphorically—actual rust-red tears oozing from keyholes all across Deadbolt Row. When Harlan used The Thorn Key to open his own front door, he found Mira Thorn waiting in his foyer.
"You’ve been using my name," she said, running a finger along his keyring. "Without permission."
Harlon’s keys began unlocking themselves in their drawers. Cabinet doors swung open to reveal cavities where his memories should be. The Liar’s Lever turned to liquid in his hands.
By dawn, Deadbolt Row’s residents found their doors grown shut—frames and walls fused together like healed wounds. Harlan’s workshop stood empty save for one final key on the workbench:
The Lockmaker’s Regret – its bow shaped like a noose, its teeth matching the scars on Mira Thorn’s wrists.
Now when the district clocks strike midnight, metal groans behind the walls. Those foolish enough to put their ears to the plaster hear it:
The sound of something turning.
Not a key.
A doorknob.
From the other side.
Final Note:
Mira Thorn was never the customer. She was always the lock. Check your pockets. That weight you’ve been carrying? It’s not keys. It’s teeth.
