is a key still a key if there’s nothing to unlock
Secrets are buried in documents. My parents were the first with financial papers, but my sister’s diary filled me with titillating stories. I became the key by unlocking accounts.
Flights of fancy of no lasting consequence, inserting myself into their private lies, I acquired the persona of those lives and set mine aside.
I’m a locksmith by day, a lock cracker for hire. With skills that excel and a burning desire to free the truth, break the jaws that catch, resolve the riddle—expose the liar.
The prize rarely matters, charming the lock to loose the latch. Any sealed container is a chest of treasure; the reward, a tumbler, a monster dispatched.
At times I leave advice chiding the hoarder: live better. At times I ingratiate myself with their secrets as levers [“I love the sea; a boat, you do? some time I’d like to sail with you.”]
Your classifieds, I say to the safe, are safe with me; let me ease your burden. Your lock seals secrets within. Those with keys may pass and those with wits may prise this cipher open.
