I slid the key into the lock.
It fit perfectly.
I turned it slowly.
The lock clicked.
The sound echoed in the quiet morning air.
For a moment, I just stood there, my hand on the door handle, my heart racing. I thought about turning around. I thought about locking it again and walking away.
But I did not.
I pushed the door open.
The hinges creaked loudly. The sound made me flinch. Sunlight poured into the dark space, illuminating dust particles floating in the air. The smell hit me immediately. Old wood. Dirt. Something musty and forgotten.
I stepped inside slowly.
My eyes adjusted to the dim light.
Shelves lined the walls, covered in old gardening tools, pots, bags of soil, rusted shovels. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust.
And then I saw it.
In the corner of the room, hidden behind a stack of old flower pots, was a wooden desk.
It was small, simple, the kind of desk someone might use for writing letters or keeping records.
But it did not belong here. Not in a garden shed. Not covered in dust like it had been forgotten for decades.
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