Story
La clé perdue
Marie climbed the stairs to the third floor. It was a gray autumn afternoon. The hallway of her building was silent and narrow. She held a library book under her arm. After three weeks in this apartment, she still didn't know anyone in the neighborhood.
She stopped in front of her door and searched for her keys in her bag. Her hands were trembling slightly. The keys weren't in the outside pocket. They weren't at the bottom of the bag either. Marie took everything out: her wallet, her phone, an old metro ticket. Nothing.
Her heart was beating faster. She checked her pockets — empty. She looked on the ground — nothing. Her phone showed three percent battery. The concierge's door displayed a small sign: "Away for the weekend."
Marie stood motionless in the hallway. She was locked out. Her thoughts were racing. What if someone had found her keys? What if that person entered her apartment? She closed her eyes for a moment. No. She had to calm down. But she didn't know anyone in this building. No one.
Then she looked at her neighbor's door. It was the only door on the third floor with a small wreath hanging on it. Marie had seen this elderly woman on the stairs sometimes, but they had never spoken to each other.
She knocked gently. The door opened almost immediately.
"Oh, hello," said the old lady with a smile. She wore a green cardigan and round glasses. "You're the new tenant, aren't you? Marie?"
"Yes, Madame..."
"Dubois. But call me Hélène. What's going on?"
Marie felt her cheeks grow warm. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I... I lost my keys. I'm locked out. The concierge isn't here, and my phone..." She pointed at the black screen.
Madame Dubois made a sympathetic sound. "Oh, you poor thing. Come in for a moment. I'll make some tea."
"Thank you, but I... I can't." Marie was looking at the hallway. "I need to find a solution."
"Of course." Madame Dubois nodded. "There's Monsieur Girard on the second floor. He's a bit... stern, but he knows everyone. Maybe he can help you."
Marie thanked Madame Dubois and went down the stairs. She felt a little less alone.
On the second floor, the hallway was darker. Marie knocked on the door without decoration.
The man who opened was about sixty years old. He wore a perfectly pressed gray shirt. His eyes examined Marie without smiling.
"Yes?"
"Hello, Monsieur. I... I live on the third floor. I lost my keys and..."
He was waiting. Marie felt her anxiety rise.
"Madame Dubois told me that maybe you..."
"I don't have keys for your apartment." His voice was calm, without emotion.
"I understand. I just wanted... I don't know..."
The man looked at the book under his arm. Then he said: "Sometimes, things fall into books."
He closed the door.
Marie remained alone in the hallway. Her keys were nowhere to be found, and now she had no one left to ask for help. She looked at the book under her arm.
Then Monsieur Girard's words resonated in her head: "Things fall into books."
She slowly went back up to the third floor. She sat on a step. She placed the book on her lap and began turning the pages.
One page. Two pages. In the middle of the book, something shone.
Her keys.
They had fallen between two pages. Marie looked at them for a long moment. Then she laughed — a short and nervous laugh, but relieved. The keys had been there all along. She had had them all along.
Madame Dubois's door opened. The old lady looked at Marie with the keys in her hand.
"You found them?"
"They were in the book." Marie shook her head. "I'm sorry for all this..."
"It happens very easily." Madame Dubois smiled. "Books hide many things."
"Thank you, Madame Dubois."
"Hélène. And I'm happy to have met you, Marie."
Marie entered her home. She closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. The apartment was silent. But this silence was different now — calmer, less oppressive.
She placed the keys on the small hook next to the door and breathed deeply. She was still herself, still anxious sometimes, but she no longer felt quite alone in this building.