The Brass Key

The field stretches flat, yellow grass pressing against the sky. I walk toward the telephone pole, its weathered wood stained by decades of rain. I find it: a brass key, its metal warmth sinking into my palm. Someone else’s ache rests behind my ribs, a low thrum that pulses when the light shifts. I hear the gravel crunch a different rhythm. A small figure stands by the base of the pole, brushing aside the overgrown weeds. She is my sister, perhaps seven years old, wearing a coat that belonged to a man I recognize from a photo. She turns, her eyes matching mine. And then I am only I, only my younger sibling, standing opposite her. My breath catches, tasting of dust and ozone. The air cools instantly. I trace the length of the pole with my fingers; the wood grain smells of cinnamon and something electric.