"An Unexploited Key" by Edmund Garcia (2023)

Mismashed limestone, brick, clay, and wood combined to make a fragmented wall. It was faded, aged from the dust and sunlight that had landed on its surface. From the years of weathered shelter it had provided, the building remembered dozens of people and the moments they’d shared inside. 

At first, there was an architect, tirelessly pounding brick and mortar into a stronghold for his family. His wife used to bring him lemonade on hotter days, their children just a few steps behind her. As the little boy grew up, he joined his father in the build. They were quiet most days. The sun’s unrelenting heat and the nearby swamp’s suffocating humidity took away the little breath they had to spare. For them, the building was an accomplishment, and as it took shape from skeleton to chateau, an energy was restored. The building could tell when they were almost finished, an electric buzz circulating through their fingers and into its foundation. As the final touches were applied, father and son began to sing. For nearly an hour, they continued a song without words, pounding nails into wood and brushing paint onto trim. The house watched as time passed in a blur, the family moving in, growing up, and leaving home. 

The next inhabitant was a chef, a solitary and cool woman who almost never left the kitchen. Surprisingly, she took pleasure in the antiquated stove, considering each successful dish to be an anomaly of its upbringing. The house was partial to souffle days, as she tended to crack open a dime-store novel and sip tea while she waited for it to rise. When the chicken-shaped timer dinged, a smile would flutter across her lips at the dish’s perfect crust. It was the closest she ever got to appearing happy. For years, it was only the chef and her house, until a letter from her sister arrived, pleading for her return to a country far away. Their mother was ill, and there was nothing to be done but bid her goodbye. The chef pondered her choices, often falling asleep in the wicker back chair she ate meals in as exhaustion overtook her. One particular night, the moon glinted at the perfect angle onto her set of knives, catching the light and reflecting onto her face. She stirred, and began almost without thinking to cook a roast. Weary from effort and interrupted sleep, she toiled over the stove until dawn, when she finally allowed herself to take a bite. Again, the house felt a burning sensation as it had near its completion. She would move on too. As she rolled her suitcase out the door, she left a small tart on the kitchen table for the spirit who had cooked with her all those years.

The man who moved in next was much less sentimental. Walls were immediately broken down, mementos were trashed, and appliances were removed. This man did not do it alone. He commanded a fleet of tireless workers and smoked cigar after cigar as the house became gray with ash. Eventually, it was a shell of its former self. Once the humble paint and simplistic plan had been decimated, the man began his pursuit of all things luxurious. Gilded gold covered the molding and walnut staircases climbed to new heights. A marble floor was installed in the center and topped off with a grand piano. For nearly two years, the house was in a state of beautiful disarray. At last, a heavy velvet bow adorned its two brand new front doors, and the man untied it with a flourish. Hundreds of people poured into the hall, stuffing themselves with treats and dancing until their feet ached. Gowns and tuxedos were standard ensembles, and a new pianist featured each week. The man became rich beyond his wildest dreams, bundles of cash collected in his white leather wallet from the eager public desperate for a night of lavish pleasure. He ran a dance hall of the highest caliber, and in time began to turn people away. No longer concerned with appealing to the middle class, he began screening his guests for admission. Days faded into months of stuffy silences as the glamor of the ballroom increased and the enjoyment of the audience slowly dropped into stagnancy. The house grew quiet once more.