The key came in the mail a few days later.

Meabh sat at my feet while I inspected it. The gold plating had flaked off, revealing the dark brass metal underneath. The key was attached to a rusted metal ring. It wasn't anything special; certainly not an antique skeleton key like you might see in an episode of Murdoch Mysteries.

That, along with a frustratingly brief message in size-12 Times New Roman were the only things enclosed in the envelope.

72 Decorso Drive, Vaughan.

The lock might be rusty.

The back of the envelope had my name and address in careful handprint. No return address.

I got up to clear the dining table. My notes, logo designs and statistical reports from GreenGlass were plopped onto the sofa in the adjacent living room, along with my purse, jacket, and phone. I also swallowed my Lexoyl pill with a glass of water before moving the glass to the couch, too. Meabh swished her tail in disapproval. "I'll organize them later. You'll have the couch to yourself soon," I told her. I finished my toast with Mrs. Wiśniewski's berry jam and set it aside.

I sat back at the dining table and wrapped the key in my hand. I closed my eyes. Leaned back. Allowed my present thoughts to fade.

Snippets of images, sounds and senses of another's life wandered to me. I engrained each in my memory: sparks flying from old machine parts, crumbling peppered oats and meat, acrylic paint, a low murmur, fuzzy mornings, bare feet slapping on pavement and a quiet as thick as molasses.

The memories receded like paint oozing down a small drain. I swallowed down the taste of haggis—when was the last time I'd eaten that? It seemed so long ago—and turned the key over, inspecting the engraved name one more time. I could barely keep my hands from trembling.

Taste of haggis lingered on my tongue. Despite all the expertise Youtube had to offer--a haven for self-taught cooks--it wasn't the same as when Mom cooked the Scottish dish. Store-bought haggis tasted artificial. Eating it at a crowded restaurant was unbearable.

I hurried to the windows, unlatched them and breathed deeply, ignoring the chill that raised the hairs on my neck. The traffic lights below me changed from red to green. The windowsill dug under my tight grip until I let go.

After finding my footing, I'd changed my name to Nora Whelan. Never would I have thought I'd see my family surname again.

MacIntyre.

I frowned and pressed my thumb on the key's engraving, willing it to disappear.

—

The key was safely stashed away in my desk drawer as I cleaned my apartment. But this was a newly built condo, and the only cleaning I really had to do was dusting the television mantle. With a wet cloth, I wiped the grit that had gathered in the grooves of a French antique plate. Hannah had always liked the carefully painted vines and filigree patterns; I, on the other hand, had no care for the past. Hannah knew this well. She still thought I kept it out of friendships' sake, and she was right. But the plate did have one deeming quality: it took up a sizable amount of room on the mantelpiece, making up for the lack of photos or knick knacks that would decorate the furniture. I returned the plate to its place, all too aware of the other objects that I had detached my feelings of affection from: an empty wooden photo frame, a fake potted flower, and even a Murdoch-Mysteries styled pocket watch, given by a woman I'd dated a year ago.

That night I had Tai's keys in my own hands. If I'd used my ability then, what would his keys have told me about him? What I wanted most was an understanding, a glimpse of common ground where we could co-exist without the question of family etched in our hearts. But most likely, his keys would have shown me a different world that I hadn't had the privilege of growing up in.

Privilege. A tricky word; all privilege was subjective.

I hadn't Unlocked anyone's key for a long, long time. I barely found the need to use it. Reflecting on the past hadn't done much good. As for seeing into other people's lives, I'd rather use my eyes and ears instead of relying on their key. Until now.

I dialed Hannah's number, wondering if she was back on Canadian soil yet. She picked it up promptly.

"Nora! I just arrived at the airport. My flight is delayed, but I will return by tomorrow," Hannah replied. I noted with delight how her French accent had sharpened, gracefully elongating the clacky English vowels. "I can't wait to see my shop again. I have many ideas."

Perching the phone under my shoulder, I retrieved the stranger's key from my desk and returned to the couch. Meabh jumped up on my lap, recognizing Hannah's voice. "From Paris, you mean? I can already taste it. No one makes chocolates as good as you do."

There was a laugh on the other end. "Be careful of that sweet tooth of yours! Text me your schedule later; we can bake at my place once I come home. But Nora, how are you? What have I missed?"

"Baking sounds wonderful. And yes, but I'll tell you when you get home." The key etched with MacIntyre glinted under the setting sun's rays like a sword. I glanced back at the mantle. The French plate mirrored a white, lifeless reflection of the room. "Say Hannah, why did you give me that antique plate? I vaguely remember you telling me that it told some sort of story."

Hannah spoke excitedly, delighted by my sudden interest. "Oh, my family finally told me the full story this trip! Okay, so supposedly my great-grandmère had given a similar plate to her husband when he knocked on her door. Sorry, her future husband--before they met, my great-grandpère was looking for his lost watch, and he went about the neighbourhood--but anyway, he knocked on her door, yes? He had an odd fashion sense and thus, my great-grandmère thought he was homeless. So, she gave him bread and cheese, along with an old plate, because it'd be rude to sprinkle crumbs over her doorstep. Personally I believe that's the origin of my middle name, miette, meaning crumbs. The reasoning is not entirely confirmed because of the lack of historical records, but...."

She gave a wistful sigh. "If only I could be a historian too. But why do you ask, Nora? You don't have a real interest in these kinds of things. Asides from what goes on in Murdoch Mysteries."

"Goodness, you need to catch up to the new episode! And nonsense, your story was fascinating," I assured her, "and very charming. I'd love to hear more about it when you come back. But historical records, you say? Your story wasn't just a passed-on verbal tale; there were photos? Or documentation? A journal?" Good old Hannah; she could spin fictional tales to life as well as fact-check anything in the name of historiography.

"Something like that. But where are you going with....? Oh. Nora, we've discussed this before." Deeming that it was safe to go on, she added tentatively, "Last time you remained adamant that you didn't care enough to trouble yourself with your family."

My eyes returned to the desk drawer, drawn to the key inside like a magnet. "Something happened. It'll take too much time to explain over the phone, but I learned new things I can't ignore anymore."

"Well...regardless if it's good or bad news, I'd be happy to help you."

"That's okay. You have your shop to take care of first," I said softly. Besides, I had no idea where to start, and dragging another person for the ride would only consume their time, too.

"That is true. Oh, is that my flight? Yes, thank you. Sorry Nora, I have to go. See you soon."

"See you!"

My initial elation wore off. I'd have to tell Hannah about the key soon enough. Maybe even about my family. She deserved a thorough explanation. I nudged Meabh out of my lap. But what about my vision? What had I just seen? Pacing the length of my apartment—it did feel small, despite knowing a bachelor's suite was plenty of room—while staring at my scribbled notes, I tried to recall exactly what the key had shown me. Yes, I knew there had been an automotive factory of some sort, someone cooked fine Scottish meals, and someone liked to paint. I doubted they were the same people. A family house key, then. A spare? But throughout those memories, the distinct sense of suffocation coated them like oil.

That. That...sensation was the key. My throat tightened. It wasn't just the taste of savoury sausage that brought forth a surge of my own memories. 

Diving into the past terrified me. But there were ways to do it methodically, too. I couldn't allow myself to be swept into these intangible emotions when I could take control of them.

I went to my closet, where I had stored poster boards and other supplies from work. Finding one with a marker, I placed it on the ground and began drawing.

Then I sat back. It was all there, scribbled in purple crayola marker; a haphazard mind map centered around the MacIntyre key. I shouldn't rush to connect the memories just yet. From past experience, I knew that the big picture was more important. I needed to focus on the facts, not my conjectures. That left me with the given address, my last name,and the uncanny feeling I couldn't quite name. "Suffocating" was a surface descriptor. I was sure Hannah would give me more ideas with her language skills.

"72 Decorso Drive, Vaughan," I said out loud. Vaughan was about an hour's drive from Aurora, nestled right in the GTA area. I'd never liked big cities. My stay at Vaughan was temporary until I went to college in Pickering.

I wracked my memories—my own memories—for any mention of a house in Vaughan. My parents' financial situation had been stressful. Even if they were skilled at covering things up, I knew they couldn't afford another house. "Another house wouldn't do them much good," I surmised.

But what about extended family? I'd only caught bits and snippets about any blood relatives outside my household. Could I contact them? No, that would be messy.

I was no detective. Chances were I'd fallen into a non-existent lead. This shouldn't be my business.

Curiosity scratched at the suffocating feeling that the key had wrapped me in. I needed to see this house for myself. I needed to see what my parents were so insistent on keeping from me.

Besides, it was about time I took a trip outside of Aurora.

Maybe it'd be a good source of inspiration.

—

I edged down the stairs in my pajamas and socks. Mom had tucked me into bed, but at the last minute I'd remembered that I hadn't given Grandpa his medicine. He was already asleep. But the furious whispers floated from the kitchen told me my parents weren't.

"You landed us in this mess. With your ridiculous shopping sprees, and having him live here—"

"I had no choice! You're just as responsible, doing nothing in this house." Mom lowered her voice. "Right now, this is the best option. Nora knows how to take care of him. We have enough to get by. Look, you can get a loan at the bank, and with my salary, everything will be fine."

A heavy sigh from Dad. "It'd still be better to put him in a retirement home."

"And give up all of this? Go back to where we started? I'm tired of living like that, Andrew. So tired."

My foot slipped on the last step. I stumbled and bumped against the hallway wall.

"Nora, dear?" Mom asked. Her silhouette appeared at the end of the hallway, surrounded by the kitchen light. "What are you doing awake? Can't sleep?"

I nodded. "Thirsty," I whispered.

"I'll get her a glass," said Dad out of sight. There was the sound of water sloshing into a cup. I padded to the kitchen, squinting from the light. Dad gave me the glass. It was cool against my hands. I raised it up to my lips. Above the glass' rim, I didn't miss the glances my parents exchanged.

I said, "Are you worried about the hospital bill?"

Mom and Dad froze. I pointed to the dining table, where the letter from the mailbox sat in plain sight. I wouldn't have known if not for my strange vision the other day, but luckily I didn't need to explain myself. The tension eased.

"We'll take care of it," Dad sighed. "You can go upstairs."

I took smaller sips from my cup. My eyes wandered to the house keys that hung on the key rack in the living room. If only I could get to them. Something told me I'd get the answers I needed.

I jumped as Grandpa coughed from upstairs. Mom crossed her arms. "Nora, did you give Grandpa his medicine?"

"I did," I lied, "but he's getting worse. Will Grandpa be okay?"

"It'll be a good idea if you can stay home with Grandpa," Dad replied. "Take care of him. You don't have any tests from school coming up."

"Okay." I could manage that. I'd miss some important lessons but R would be nice enough to help me. I smiled slightly.

Mom patted me. "That's the spirit. Go to sleep, now."