For the past six months, the winding route home has taken us past a set of keys clinging to a fence post. A battered and faded heart hanging. Initially they were a puzzle. Who had lost them, did they even know they had been lost? Who was the altruistic hanger, hopeful of reuniting the pair?
Then as time past, as lines cracked both wood and skin, the keys became an installation, a point of inspiration. A ritual that broke up the journey home.
We would try to come up with a story each time we walked past those keys. For our youngest they became the means of entering the old haunted wooden house on the hill. Where treasure and pirates lurked amongst zombies and ghosts. For the eldest they were the means of opening a dimensional rift, created by a scientist escaping our reality.
Lives and worlds were constructed and discussed, of unrequited love between a Juliet and her Romeo, a gang of nefarious bank robbers and their hidden loot, the sole means of accessing Heisenberg’s meth lab and grabbing some blue.
Then sometimes they were just simply keys with a heart-shaped keyring hanging underneath.