Possibilities

She found the pocket-sized book in her grandparent’s library.

The term “library” loosely applied – the room had previously been a garage, converted to a bedroom where her parents slept when they visited. Three of the walls were covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, stacked with books of an incongruous variety. Old, leather-bound religious texts sat next to Agatha Christie novels, and romance novels with covers containing beautiful women and men whose hair blew in the breeze. A perfect mix of her strict grandfather and fun-loving grandmother.

Sarah often came out here to find something to read, after she had exhausted the books she brought with her. She wasn’t much interested in the religious texts beyond their obvious age. Sometimes she would open an interesting-looking cover to check the copyright date, and marvel at the age before putting it back with reverence.

That day, she spotted a small, slim book. A black cover, hardcover but coated with soft leather. No words were printed on the outside. The book’s diminutive size meant it would easily fit in a pocket. She opened it carefully, looking for a title page, but found none. And no dates. She flipped gently though the pages, but the book was in another language. The little volume went home with her at the end of the week, and was removed to sit on her bookshelf for nearly two decades thereafter.

-

“I think you can just get rid of everything,” Sarah told her mother on the phone. She had moved out years before; anything left in her childhood room had been forgotten and clearly wasn’t needed. Besides, her house was full, and she didn’t need another room full of stuff.

“What about your books, though?” her mother asked. “You have this bookcase … it’s full, and there are some art books here that you might want, if nothing else.”

Sarah shrugged. “Sure,” she replied. “Leave them there and I’ll come over this weekend and go through them.”

-

She almost didn’t remember the black book, picking it up in confusion with a frown. She ran a finger along the dry but not-yet-cracked leather, and opened it. The writing inside brought back a faint memory of her grandparents, gone now, and the cold garage-turned-library with all its books. She kept nearly all the books on the bookshelf, and the little black book she put in her purse and carried with her.

-

The next week, Sarah was in the art district near campus picking up some paints. She almost passed the bookstore before her mind registered what she had seen. She slowed, her mind still half on paint, and turned almost subconsciously.

The shop’s window was painted in vintage glory – an old-fashioned font, gold paint, lots of flourishes. Sarah thought the window would be appropriate for a magic shop, or a detective agency in the ‘60s. Almost without thinking she opened the door and entered. Sarah glanced around the shop, which appeared to be a reseller of used editions. On impulse, she walked up to the counter, pulling the black book out of her purse where it had sat since its rediscovery a week ago. The girl smiled at her, sticking a bookmark in her novel and setting it aside. “What can I help with?”

Sarah felt a bit flustered, but offered the book anyway, which the girl took with curiosity. “I don’t know what made me come in,” Sarah laughed, “and I don’t even know if you will know, but I have this book that I got from my grandparents. I just wondered … I mean, do you know – can you tell anything about it?”

The girl’s manner changed subtly, her hands moving more delicately as she gently paged through the book. She went all the way to the last page in silence before closing the cover softly, and handing the book back. “I think you want the room downstairs,” she said, pointing to the back of the shop. “Down the stairs and hang a left, you can’t miss it.”

Sarah blinked, slightly confused, but nodded. She followed the girl’s directions and spotted a door at the back of the shop. A sign with a hand pointing down hung on the door. She opened it and looked at the rickety stairs leading below, lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. With some slight trepidation she descended. At the bottom she could hear water dripping to her right. She made a face, paused, almost turned back – but the doorway above somehow looked darker than the basement, and so she shrugged mentally and went left. A red door stood at the end of the hall, and after knocking with no response Sarah opened the door and jumped back in shock.

Here stood an outdoor garden, with a curving red bridge over a koi pond, and in the distance a pagoda. In disbelief, Sarah gaped, her mind trying to process how this could exist underground, or here at all, when she knew for a fact that the entire street was lined with shops anyway.

She went in. How could she not?

The air felt different here; peaceful and calm. Sarah felt she could breathe, after not knowing that she hadn't been able to before. It was like stepping into the sunshine after being in shadow her whole life. The cherry blossom trees waved gently despite the lack of breeze, and petals drifted down around her.

After a slow stroll over the bridge, eyes wide at the magical beauty before her, she entered the pagoda. A small man sat on a red floor cushion inside. He held out his hands, and knowing what he expected she handed him the book. He took it reverently. “This belongs here,” he said simply. “It was lost many years ago. It belongs to you, but I humbly ask if you would allow us to hold it. We can offer you credit, in exchange, and if ever you desire to return you may come retrieve it.”

Sarah blinked and frowned. “Um.” This hadn’t been what she was expecting. She had so many questions, but it felt inappropriate to ask this man. The book belongs here? Where is here? And … what credit? As if the last question had been asked, the man smiled and stood, drawing back a curtain on the wall. The wall was covered in hooks with beautiful objects dangling from them. Sarah stepped closer, involuntarily, and realized all the objects were keys. Beautiful, decorative keys, with jewels and filagree. Her hand on its own accord reached out to touch one that was set with a diamond in the center.

The man, with a smile in his eyes, took it down for her. “Yes. Thank you.” He said it with finality, handing her the key. Sarah took it, and feeling its weight realized this felt right. She blinked again and found herself at the red door, and again at the shop door, and then at her car in the street, key still in hand.

-

For the next few months Sarah often found herself fingering the key. She would have written the whole day off as a dream if not for the beautiful golden key. She had attached it to a chain and hung it around her neck, and would pull it out at all hours to contemplate.

She hadn’t realized she was touching the key one day in another vintage goods shop until the man behind the counter approached her. She’d been in her frequently before and knew Sven well. “May I see that key?” he asked, so she removed the chain and handed it over. He took it back to the counter and inspected it. “This is very fine workmanship,” he told her. “Would you ever consider selling? I’d offer you a very good price, likely more than you would expect.”

Despite the key’s mystical origins, and a once again forgotten black book, $20,000 was more than she could pass up. Sarah sold the key, and didn’t look back.

Until several months later when she found herself on the street with the vintage bookshop. When she opened the shop door, she was appalled to find the store completely empty. After a shocked moment in the doorway, she moved to the door in the back, down the creaky stairs, and to the red door down the hall – only there was no red door. She felt the wall right into the corners, finding only damp stone. Her heart clenched as she realized what she had given up for money. An aching sense of loss settled into her bones, a sadness she couldn’t have predicted and had never felt before. She collapsed to the floor, and feeling silly but relieved that nobody was around to witness her moment of foolishness, let herself cry.

For the following days Sarah couldn’t stop visiting the bookstore. The door was always unlocked, the shop always empty, the red door always missing. On one visit she ran into the owner, who was escorting a potential buyer back into the street. Sarah felt her heart seize at the thought of losing the shop, and the red door, and the possibility of the garden and the magic – and even the book and key. The owner asked if she’d like to see the place, and she accepted.

Almost before she realized what had happened, she had signed the paperwork for the building. $20,000 was a bargain, even if she no longer had quite that much in the bank. Thankfully, since she hadn’t researched zoning before her purchase, she was allowed to live above the shop, so she moved in. Her paintings took on a mystical quality, featuring zen gardens with hidden books and keys that were only noticeable when pointed out to the viewer. Critics regarded her newest works highly, with much speculation on where the ideas flowed from

-

It was months later that she met Brian at one of her shows, and a year after that she accepted his proposal. He moved in and helped her run her shop, doing all of the maintenance she didn’t have time for and tending her wilted plants which had been oft neglected. The shop, the plants, and Sarah thrived on his attention.

One night in bed before falling asleep, Sarah told him the story of the red door and the Japanese garden beneath the street. He became still as she spoke of the key, his eyes wide. When she placed a hand on his chest, his heart was pounding. “What is it?” she asked.

He didn’t respond at first, then in a lightning quick motion climbed from the bed.

“This is – I don’t think – you’ll believe it,” he responded haltingly. “Come here.”

He took her hand and led her downstairs to the back room where her art was prepared for showing. He let go her hand and opened a wooden box that he had been sanding down the week before and had just finished sealing. The wood almost glowed. From within, he gently lifted a key – a golden key, with decorative filagree and a diamond set in the center. “I bought this years ago,” he said softly, handing it to her. “ I wasn’t sure why. It was just right and I had to have it. I always found myself – wanting to touch it, I guess. It grounded me. And when I met you, I knew it was yours, and the right time would come to give it to you.”

He gently handed her the key. Sarah took it wordlessly, her heart lifting, realizing tears were falling from her eyes. She hiccuped, then laughed and shook her head at herself. Together, she and Brian went down the old stairs and turned left, neither surprised at the sight of the red door set into the wall.