The Key to Nothing

The key is cold in my palm. Too cold for Prague in May. I should know. I've been working the Charles Bridge for three weeks now, lifting wallets from tourists who think they're too smart to get picked. This one, though, a guy in a cheap suit, he was too easy. Too distracted. Like he had something else on his mind.

I slip the key into my pocket, along with his wallet. The wallet's a nice one, leather, probably cost more than I make in a week. But the key, that's the odd thing. It's old, brass, tarnished. Not something you'd expect to find on a guy like him.

I head to the usual spot, a café near the bridge, to sort through the haul. The wallet's got the usual stuff: credit cards, some cash, a few receipts. Nothing interesting. But the key, that's another story.

I turn it over in my fingers. It's got a tag, a small brass tag with a number on it. A safety deposit box. I know the banks around here, the ones that rent out boxes to tourists who don't trust the hotels. I could take the key to one of them, see what's inside.

But why? It's not like I need the money. I've got enough to get by, enough to keep me in cheap beer and cheaper women. And it's not like I'm some kind of hero, looking to return lost property. I'm a thief, plain and simple.

Still, there's something about the key. Something that bugs me. Maybe it's the way it feels in my hand, heavy and cold. Maybe it's the way the number on the tag looks, like it's been stamped there a thousand times.

I finish my coffee, light a cigarette. The smoke curls up into the air, disappears into the Prague sky. I make a decision.

I head to the bank, the one on the corner of Celetná Street. The teller looks at me like I'm something she scraped off her shoe. I slide the key across the counter, tell her I think it's for a safety deposit box.

She takes the key, looks at the number, nods. She leads me to the back, to a small room with a table and a chair. She leaves me there, comes back with a small metal box.

I open it. Inside, there's a single, dried flower. That's it. No note, no money, no jewels. Just a flower, pressed and dried, like something you'd find in a book.

I pick it up, turn it over in my fingers. It's a rose, I think. Or maybe a tulip. I'm no expert on flowers. But I know one thing: this flower is important. To someone, somewhere, this flower means something.

I put it back in the box, close the lid. I take the box to the teller, tell her I made a mistake. I don't want it. She looks at me like I'm crazy, but she takes it back anyway.

I walk out of the bank, into the Prague afternoon. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the tourists are taking pictures. And I'm standing there, with a key in my pocket and a flower on my mind.

I don't know why I did it. Why I went to the bank, why I opened the box. Maybe I was curious. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I just wanted to see what was inside.

But now I know. And knowing is a dangerous thing.

I light another cigarette, take a drag. The smoke curls up into the air, disappears into the Prague sky. I make another decision.

I head back to the bridge, to the spot where I lifted the wallet. The guy in the cheap suit is still there, standing by the railing, looking out over the river. I walk up to him, tap him on the shoulder.

He turns around, looks at me. His eyes are red, like he's been crying. I hold out the key, the one I took from his pocket. He looks at it, then at me. He takes the key, puts it in his pocket.

"Thank you," he says. His voice is quiet, like he's afraid someone will hear him.

I nod, turn to walk away. But he stops me, puts a hand on my arm. "You opened it, didn't you?" he says. "The box."

I look at him, say nothing.

He nods, like he understands. "It was my wife's," he says. "She died last year. Cancer. She loved flowers. She used to press them, keep them in books. That was her favorite."

I look at him, at the key in his pocket. I think about the flower, dried and pressed, in the safety deposit box. I think about the guy in the cheap suit, standing on the bridge, looking out over the river.

I don't know what to say. So I say nothing. I just nod, turn to walk away.

But he stops me again. "Thank you," he says. "For opening the box. For seeing what was inside."

I nod, walk away. I don't look back. I don't want to see the guy in the cheap suit, standing on the bridge, looking out over the river.

I head back to the café, order another coffee. The sun is still shining, the birds are still singing, the tourists are still taking pictures. And I'm sitting there, with a key in my pocket and a flower on my mind.

I take a sip of my coffee, light another cigarette. The smoke curls up into the air, disappears into the Prague sky. I make one last decision.

I take the key out of my pocket, the one I took from the guy's wallet. I look at it, turn it over in my fingers. Then I put it on the table, push it towards the edge.

I stand up, walk out of the café. I don't look back. I don't want to see the key, sitting on the table, waiting to be picked up.

I walk down the street, into the Prague afternoon. The sun is still shining, the birds are still singing, the tourists are still taking pictures. And I'm walking away, with a key in my pocket and a flower on my mind.

I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what I'm doing. But I know one thing: I'm not a hero. I'm just a thief. And thieves don't do things like this.

But I did. And now I have to live with it.

I take a deep breath, let it out slow. The air is cool, the sky is blue, the world is turning. And I'm standing here, with a key in my pocket and a flower on my mind.

And that's enough. For now, that's enough.