Weekend Wordsmith.

The Old Key.

The old man fumbled in his pocket to find the front door key. This old key, this dirty key. Rusty. Dusty. He knew it was there. Digging deep , under the hanky and sweet wrappers . At last he found it. Slowly he placed it in the lock. But it wouldn't fit.
As he walked up the steps he'd checked , it was no. 91 . This was it . He tried to turn the key. Nothing. OK it was an old lock, and old door and an even older house. It must turn. Please turn . I need to get in, food, warmth ,it's all in there. This is my home.
Oh someone help me . It's starting to get dark. I knew I should have got a new key cut. All these thoughts penetrated his mind. Panic was gradually turning into despair when he heard a voice.
'I'm coming, hold on.'
The door , as if by magic opened. Not with the key, but from the other side. From the inside.
'Yes?' questioned the young lady. 'Can I help you?'.
'Oh, ' was all he could say. She recognised him then. 'Mr James, hello. I see what's happened my house number has dropped. So 6 looks like 9 !'
'You are further down at no. 91.'She started to laugh as he shuffled down to his little home. The old key, all rusty and dusty fit the lock perfectly. Home at last!

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beautiful story... you portrayed his story well...

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