Four months after the funeral, Sarah felt the familiar burn of exhaustion setting in. Needing her usual escape, she packed a small bag and drove down to the coast, arriving at the beach house just as the sun began to set. She walked up the weathered wooden steps, holding her old brass key in her hand. She slid the key into the deadbolt, but as she tried to turn it, the cylinder wouldn’t even budge.
Sarah frowned, jiggling the handle. She tried pushing her weight against the door, assuming the coastal humidity had warped the frame, but the key simply didn’t fit the internal mechanics. Stepping back, she examined the hardware closely in the fading twilight. The handle and plate looked almost identical to the old ones, but the keyway itself was pristine, sharp, and completely free of the usual salt-air tarnish.
The lock hadn’t jammed or rusted. Someone had professionally replaced the core of the deadbolt with a matching, brand-new set, completely locking her out.