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At the top of Grandad's crooked staircase there was a door that never opened. Its handle was cold, its paint the colour of old milk, and a single brass keyhole stared out like a watchful eye.
"Leave it be," Grandad always said, and I always did, until the afternoon I found the key.
It was hidden inside a teapot, wrapped in a handkerchief that smelled of dust and peppermint. My heart thudded as I climbed the stairs. The key turned with a reluctant click, and the door sighed open.
Inside was not a monster. Inside was a room frozen in time. A child's bed sat neatly made, a rocking horse waited in the corner, and dozens of paintings covered every wall, paintings of a small boy who looked exactly like Grandad. Sunlight fell in a warm bar across a shelf of toy soldiers, and over everything lay a soft grey blanket of dust, undisturbed for years.
"That was my brother," said a quiet voice behind me.
I spun round. Grandad stood in the doorway, but he was not angry. His eyes were soft and wet.
"Charlie," he murmured. "He was poorly for a long time. I kept his room just as he liked it. I could never bear to throw the key away, and I could never bear to use it."
We stood together in the golden dust. I slipped my hand into his.
"Will you show me?" I asked.
So he did. He told me about paper aeroplanes launched from this very window, about midnight biscuits smuggled up the stairs, about a laugh that had once filled the whole house. As the light faded, the locked room did not feel sad at all. It felt as though a door had opened inside Grandad too.
That evening we left the door ajar, just a crack, and let the fresh air in.
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