My heart skipped a beat.

I hadn’t left the light on.

I reached into my pocket, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal of the brass key.

I hurried my pace, my breath catching in my throat as I reached the door.

I reached out and touched the brass doorknob.

It turned easily under my hand.

The lock didn’t catch at all.

I pushed the door open, the old hinges giving a slight, familiar creak.

The warm yellow light from the floor lamp inside spilled over the threshold.

I looked down at the brass lock plate on the doorframe.

The wood around the latch was splintered, pale fresh pine showing through the dark mahogany stain.

Deep scratch marks gouged the metal, as if someone had forced a flathead screwdriver into the seam.

My stomach dropped.

I stepped into the room, my hand still holding the brass key in my pocket.

The air did not smell like lavender anymore.

It smelled like synthetic plastic, baby powder, and damp cardboard.

The wooden floorboards, usually polished and bare, were covered by interlocking foam tiles in bright primary colors.