The sixth day, penultimate before Sophia's return. Snowball remained elusive. Concern gnawed – was he stuck? Ill? I searched the living room, kitchen, bathroom, guest room. Nothing. Only the master bedroom remained. I pushed open the door. Spacious, unnervingly tidy. The bedspread lay taut without a crease. Kneeling, I scanned under the bed – bare floor. I opened the walk-in closet. Rows of clothes hung by color. Calling Snowball brought no reply. Checking corners revealed nothing. Then, I noticed a heavy, intricately patterned tapestry on one wall. One corner lifted slightly, revealing not wall, but wood. I walked over and pulled the tapestry aside. Behind it was an old, wall-embedded wooden drawer secured by a small brass lock.
The Locked Drawer
I stared. Concealed behind tapestry – clearly meant to stay hidden. Why lock a drawer inside a bedroom closet? Valuables? Documents? Secrets? My pulse quickened. I knew I shouldn't touch it. A profound violation. But could Snowball be inside? Impossible; too small. Then why hide it? The coincidences – the photo, the poetry book, the cat's fear, the sterile perfection – collided in my mind. I touched the lock. Cold. I needed a reason. If Snowball was hurt or hiding... I had a duty to check. Flimsy, but enough to propel me.
The Spare Key
I recalled Sophia mentioning a spare key before leaving. She’d gestured to the top kitchen cabinet: "If the key gets lost... way in the back, behind the tea caddy, there's a spare front door key tucked away." I fetched a chair, opened the cabinet. Neat rows of dry goods. I found the dark green tea caddy, moved it aside. Behind it, a small, rusty square biscuit tin. I lifted it down. Light. Inside, three keys hung on two rusted rings. One labeled "Garage" in faded script. One "Mailbox." And a single small brass key, unmarked. I held it. I knew what I was doing. I told myself: *Just checking for the cat*. The justification felt hollow. I replaced the other keys and slid the tin back.
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