In a mute house behind a lethargic door on a shelf dressed in dust sits a box. To the box was a key given to a girl who swam in the ocean and chose to sleep in it too. In the box was a tawdry ring given by an Aunt who had not forgotten that plastic can glow like an emerald and be worth its weight in whispered secrets. The ring was found by a sad man making up a couch because he could no longer sleep next to the woman who had taught him to love. The key was found by another man walking along the beach, made happy because he confused mystery for love and had known neither. The lock was broken, and to the collection of treasures and talismans and one photograph that tore fresh barbs of agony from a heart he thought already numb, the sad man added his own ring before leaving to seek the bridge to a distant shore. And on nights when the stars are a reflection of the sea, and the moon strains the tides ever higher unto the shore, the happy man sits with his key and dreams of a palace beneath the oceans with spires of jade and chrysoprase filled with laughing children and men content with their love, and a treasure chest that can never again be opened.
